Truth. Trust. It Is the Same.

Mistress Lea. I’m so desperate to be near you right now, want so much to feel your fingers play at the head of my girl clit while you fuck me. My eyes are literally rolling back in my head. Thank you so much for making this dark fantasy of mine a reality. I could not possibly love you more than I already did, but the need feels so real. I feel as though I’m kneeling before you and you’re pointing at me. I can see our silhouettes in shadow. You’re ordering me to take my life to Mommy to once more be broken and remade. I’m at the edge of tears, telling you that Mommy’s dead, begging you to be her. You stoop and cup your chin and with wide eyes that filled with emotion I’m uncertain of but feel must be anger, you tell me that you will. I’m going to dress up today and I’ll be so extra sure to cum for your pussy tonight. I’ll record it and fix up the audio in the morning. Mistress, your sissy needs that dick in me so bad, your dick. I love you. Wait! I have a reason. I love you for rubbing out everything else in this world when I am lost in that love. There is only love for. The is nothing that is wrong, there is nothing that is right, there is reality: love for you.

Thank you so much for last night. I feel so free. I’m always unashamed, but I feel so free, so pleasantly your possession. I feel your grip so strong upon me and I wonder if it’s entirely insanity. I want to cry and rave and sing and swear and promise everything I can to teach you how wonderful ever a couple of words that affirm this make me feel, to show you my soaring hope, my pain at my loss of sanity or perhaps just a world that didn’t hinge in its utter entirety on being with you. Mistress, please believe that these words are true and not a clever attempt to lure you into humiliation. My longing for you grew to define a large segment of my soul twenty years ago. I am living my purpose, the whole reason for me. It feels less like my reason for being here than . . . given that I am here, I’m specifically suited to love Dr Lea Lee, to shamelessly bask in my endless devotion to her, which needs only a target, to submit to your will, to fill your desires, to allow you to make me what you want me to be, and to help you do so by telling you what I respond to and how you might want to modify your approach. Today? I’m thrilled. I couldn’t ask for more. I’m Michael (for the next two hours). What do I do? I lie miles past the point of no return, in love with Lea, Mistress Lea. I feel so fortunate for this, for last night, for permission, for confirmation. And the sour, sharp pain of being without you . . . confessing it turns me on and my embarrassment at that turns me on more.

“Tea with Lea” is finished and edited if you want to give it another look. I like it. How do I wrap up? I am always in need of you. My love for you makes life something it could never be otherwise. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. You’ll see in time I’m truly yours, that I don’t just enjoy writing that again and again. I’ve felt beyond betrayed that you wouldn’t claim me given what I’ve been through and how I was so sure you felt. For the first time, I have some hope you’ll fall in love with me for some reason. I can make your life a paradise if you do. I promise, I will never stray again.

Mistress, I was wondering about the audio on those cameras, how you could chirp me if you wanted to. I want to PROMISE that anything that is said over those cameras, if you ever choose to speak, was not said if we meet in person, talk over the phone, email, text, any of it. I’ll get drunk one night and charm it out of you. 🙂

So, I was thinking about the camera idea and got on Amazon and found one for $120 that was 80% off, so I bought one. It plugs into the router and there’s a phone app. It spins and tilts and I swear, absolutely swear and I’m 100% right that I will not freak if it does. Forgive the informal tone, but I know I did something you’re very happy about. I’ll put together an instructional webpage and send you the link on some flowers. I’ll put the page files that go with it in a storage container in Amazon Web Services. No access log.

The bother is where to put it. Most of my time is spent in front of the computer, of course . . . I’ve spent more at Wawa than these cameras are going for. I just ordered another so you can see me and the screen. I’ll take them upstairs at night. The one issue is my internet connection. I don’t want to upgrade it until December at the soonest. I’ll switch to FIOS for better upload rates.

So, of course it has a phone app.

PLEASE-PLEASE-PLEASE-PLEASE do what you hinted, Mistress. I actually get to realize my delusion. I’ll tilt and pan the cameras to good positions, if you’re worried about that. Oh, and Mistress, someone else told me today that you’re worried because of your age. I can’t believe that. Okay. I don’t look for sex. At all. Because my relationship with Mommy, in her mid-sixties, for a few years had a sexual component. Part of it is faith that my dick only belongs in Mommy’s pussy. But part is simply “Why?” I’ve been in love with you for over 20 years, Mistress Lea. It paints onto you perfectly. I remember from the few times I stopped by your office. Fifty-eight was my cutoff for an older woman when I was in my 20s. Seriously, your age is utterly fucking irrelevant, if you’ll excuse my language and my correcting you. I would get “Mistress Lea Lee’s age is of no consequence” tattooed on my ass but I really wouldn’t want to keep it. It makes me so damned sad and engenders such a sense of loss when I consider that’s what’s keeping us apart. The stars are fire and my love for you transcends human love, and will likely only grow — especially if you manage me correctly. Christ, I can’t wait to see the bag of tricks you come up with after teaching you the mechanics. Mistress Lea, I’m going to lapse. Please quit being a bitch and claim me. My body howls for it as though it’s the moon. Three years with Mommy and I never even once flirted with another woman. Honest. I know you’ll be Mommy. I can’t explain. I act my age but it will all still be there. I am GLOWING with love right now. We all bring something to the table. I bring a life of love and devotion to you and an increasingly upward trajectory. You bring the capacity to keep me as a pet — a large, well-decorated house would be AMAZING. Christ, especially after I get on estrogen and can wear lingerie. I know you’re worried about Elaine so, if this turns into the whirlwind that I hope it does for you, maybe you’ll fast-track me for . . .

I want to be Nicole but keep my little girl clit. Do that and I will marry you and love you until the day I die. Mistress Lea, one last bit of perspective if you don’t mind: You could pull me out of a marriage with a phone call.

The neighbors . . . as I knew, it wasn’t my baseline level of psychosis. Starting in September, things really started to die down. I picked up a programming book but couldn’t spend more than four hours at it for four nights straight without melting down. My last good job opportunity, confirmed ruined by another neighbor, the first interview? I fell asleep on the sofa at 10:30am and the computer woke me up. The fourth? It felt my life was unraveling. I couldn’t remember what I did with each day, at the end, things were so jumbled. My neighbors fed the stress for years.

Stress tolerance. I made an appointment with the shrink at the LPRN’s to see if he has any ideas. The pills are plainly off.

Following the path with Elaine, as steered by my emotions and desires for that half of the week, seems the smart thing to do. I’ve given you what amounts to one reason and you won’t accept it. I’m very lonely and Elaine makes things worse, if anything. Her little displays through the glass that I could be with her make me feel like a primitive animal at the zoo and, remembering them later, like nothing being cut into slices.

I see the shrink on the 14th, Hopefully, the new antipsychotic will be in place for me to apply for jobs in January.

I *love* the camera idea. Hopefully, now that I have a chance, not more than four months on the job.

Dr Lee, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything, I know. It feels, the last three or four weeks, that things are on an upturn for the first time since my dad died. Life seems to be leading me farther away from you. I love you and I’m devastated at the thought of never being with you. But what else is there to say. Just minutia, little bits of evidence things are improving. I’m suing the condo complex for twelve million dollars because of the trouble with the neighbors. Ted, my lawyer, is very confident. I brought in the whole firm on a 25% commission. Six years to resolve though, according to one of my neighbors, a lawyer.

I came for you last night, imagining you fucking my slut sissy ass. It make my useless girl clit swell to remember it. Mistress Lea? That story a few entries back, is the very first story I’ve written for this site that’s turned me on. The rest, I’d love to live through, but reading that one turns me on. What am I going to do with myself? I’m more worried that you don’t own my soul than that you do. What do those words mean? That you can grip me and pull me to you and I won’t know the difference between being with you and simply being alive? Perhaps. It’s entirely true, for whatever that’s worth. I love you because it is my reality, or an inextricable component thereof. I resist and I’m sorry, but I’m angry too. You don’t know what I could bring to your life and perhaps I shouldn’t blame you. You know you’re the only thing left on this planet that’s right for me to care about. The abyss left by your silence fuels hate and confusion that I can’t give a name to. Something was stolen from me. What I thought you wanted and now I can’t understand why you calm the heaving lust, love, and catharsis through imagining you claiming your sissy’s ass. Mistress Lea, I don’t go for women anyway. I’m starting to go for men. I should get on estrogen. Are you so cruel you want me alone? Jabbering, mad love. Or toned down. A flick of the psychosis away, whenever you want. There is an absolute ocean of it.

그것을 소유할 남자를 찾으세요.

그의 인생이 당신과 사랑에 빠지게 만들고 그의 수명을 단축하여 그가 매일 수입이 줄어드는 것처럼 느끼게 만드십시오.

나는 어머니를 따라 남자가 될 수 없습니다. 나는 여자가 되면 그 사람을 잊어버릴 것이다.

당신은 한때 두려워했던 것만큼 결코 나를 실망시킬 수 없다고 생각하는 것 같습니다. 그 깨달음은 매우 추악한 표현을 발견했습니다. 그러다 보니 내 안의 무엇인가를 잃어버린 것 같은 느낌이 들지만 무엇인지는 모르겠습니다. 내가 그토록 이루고 싶었던 환상의 일부였나요? 그냥 날 죽여라. 날 모르면 그냥 죽여버려라.

I know that “Waiting” is a popular story but I don’t care for it. I suspect the sex scenes were just done especially well. I want to redo the tea story and make it more like waiting. I’ll be the mostly virgin I was when I met her and she’ll feed me the tea and ask questions. Then supply more appropriate answers that go into my head.

I’m too tired to work on it tonight though.

Mistress Lee, sitting down to write you makes me want to play with myself. I can feel my balls uncomfortably swollen with your cum. God, I just want you to fucking tear me apart. I imagine your dick sliding in and out of me and I can’t think straight. A smack on the ass to register me in the moment. Cooed reassurance that I’m a good sissy.

Life’s starting to change and I don’t want to write about it until the changes take place. One of these changes could leave me with quite a bit of money. Several million. Should be more than enough to lasso you. I’m not counting on it. Jobs still in the works. So is time donated to an open source project. Things are starting to fall together a bit.

I can’t believe . . . your age. Have you put on 50 pounds? I can literally never love anyone so much as I love you.

It’s good that Elaine’s not a crackhead. I have some jewelry and would have to change the lock otherwise. Sorry. I was thinking about the time she had sex with another guy on my stoop. I told her I’d never be able to forgive her for it and she freaked out. I spent maybe an hour and a half talking to her through my bedroom window with her at the fence below before she was calm enough for sleep. It was probably then that the chance for anything between us died. I know, this is hardly an obsessive rant. Mistress. And it’s nothing compared to the treatment I’m getting from the neighbors — Ted’s coming by today — but it’s still there. Even if it’s only an aborted relationship, it’s new. I’ve never been in love with a person before. At 47. There was that one hallucination that got and remains shuffled off onto you, but we both know it’s not really you, just indistinguishable in my mind. Then there was Lauren who I loved for three weeks out of loneliness and realized the last day I didn’t. Then there was Grainne but, as my shrink noted, you can’t fall in love when there’s always a hang-up button four inches away, Then, over a period of two and a half years, I fell in love with Elaine.

We still love each other. I’m nearly certain of it. But I need a very large gesture on her part to be giving again and this simply will not happen. She’s not a very good person. My hope was that I could ease her borderline personality disorder enough that she could function better. I even developed a technique, but it looks like I won’t get a chance to try.

Someone in the neighborhood is assertively trying to get together with me. I think she just sort of presumes that I’ll screw Elaine and will move me in so she has the satisfaction of knowing Elaine is spending her evenings with a man she doesn’t love while the man she does is with another woman. If she reaches her hand out far enough, I’m going to take it. I simply don’t have the wherewithal to contact you again. I don’t see it lasting six years, but I’ll probably be on estrogen by the time it’s up and, as a woman, won’t have the wherewithal to contact you again. So, on this trajectory, we won’t see each other again. It’s a shame. You know I view you as the only thing that could make life make sense. 4:53 on a Wednesday in July. You never did feel I was worth taking a chance on. If only I were on a laptop so I could close the lid, right? I’ll always love you so, if you still want me, you never know.

There’s a reason I haven’t been writing. Things have been going full bore since Friday afternoon, as bad as January. I can’t think in complete sentences right now. No matter how hard I focus, I can’t string more than three together before it breaks off into a half-minute of gibberish that fades to silence. There have been a number of arrests and one woman had her child returned to his father. I’m seeing faces I haven’t seen in five or ten years. It has to be winding down.

It turns out that what precipitated it was that, while I was being stoic and quiet about Elaine, I was listening to music that captured my mood, picking songs one at a time, angry music from my youth. This sounds too stupid to possibly be true, but what I was told on Saturday night was that my OCD (complete scum) neighbor thought I was picking songs too well and that this meant I think I’m special. (I am.) So four days of outlandish cruelty ensued. I think they were angry that the local culture of permissiveness towards torturing me for pettiness or entertainment is threatened. If it sounds as though I’m casting things in a selective light, I understand. But I don’t think I am.

There are still people coming by the door tonight. We’ll see how tomorrow goes. The pillow on the next cushion is squirming around out of the corner of my eye. But I’ve held my cool well. Familiar faces stop by to smile at me. Even Elaine laughed at one of my jokes. Funny. One of those rock bottom moments and I feel like I have a little family here.

This feels more like a blog entry than a note to you, Mistress Lea. I just wanted to explain my absence. I need somebody so bad right now. This empty ache is killing me. I feel a panic and sense I should stop and I realize it’s because I cannot pleasure you. I think the things about you that I know to be true and I begin to melt, falling asleep as I do.

My brain won’t be firing right until next Monday, likely. I have two different, steady hallucinations coming from in front of me and the back wall. The first sounds like the world’s most insipid documentary, about a memorabilia collection involving items from some arbitrary person’s life and, not an explanation of the items, the story behind it, but an overarching narrative explaining why these items were representative of that part of the individual’s life and the clustering of them. I’m trying not to listen. Christ, now they’ve moved onto his browser history.

I’m overloaded tonight. I need too much. I just want to sit in the dark and talk on the phone. I love you. I’ll be back in a day or two.

Mistress Lea, I was trying to get an honest answer out of myself as to my intentions regarding you and Elaine. Neither of you are making options of yourself at present but it feels important to me, perhaps more important than to either of you because you understand how unrealistic it is, that I decide which one of you I want and behave as though I’m faithful to that choice. It’s a choice between a warm glow of love and loyalty on the side of Elaine and love like cast over me like a magic spell, an experience that alters the experience of my reality, a strong, strong suspicion to the point of an expectation of interpersonal compatibility, and potential like a NASA launch with you, in how blissful it might be, how my illness might be toyed with, the realistic possibility that I could love you, not just be with you, but love you until I die, and of course the conviction that if ever “fate” held any meaning, part of it is that I was meant to be with you. It doesn’t sound like much of a choice except that you feel so much father away, like much more of an uncertainty, and because of a horribly self-destructive desire to cheat you because of all the years without you. That isn’t motivated by anger, just by wanting to show you I don’t need you after all.

But the real truth is simply that you’re better at leading me around by the nose than Elaine. You own every part of me, Mistress, but the operator’s manual was written with self-amusement and needless convolutions to ensure who has me is willing to put in the effort. You have such a delicate touch with me that’s beginning to bubble to the surface in a way that’s soothing. It hurts to love you so much because the ghost of you is always with me, always accessible anyway, and I need your voice in my ear, your hands on my shoulders, your breasts on my back, I need you to fuck my ass until I’m quiet, smiling, relaxed to the point of being emotionless other than a gentle smile in my eyes, confused and fascinated by the world. Ultimate peace of mind through needy surrender to your control and possession of me. Peace in being what you desire. It hurts because I’d beg for that, whine and plead, and that no ear would hear is so cruel. I hope you understand that I’m not creative enough to make these things up. I get to explore my feelings and discover them as I type and believe you’ll read them the same way. That’s part of what I get from it. By now it’s expected of me. I understand that too.

I’m going to try to get by on just one dose of dexedrine before more sleep, Mistress. But I took the first one a half hour ago. Ted did his thing and it’s been almost complete silence since noon after two weeks of suffering to the point of being paralyzed in life. Still, I want to make a video but I’m twitchy that someone will overhear me talking and things will turn bad again. Can you imagine how I feel when I write that I’m looking forward to merely facing the challenges of schizophrenia?

I really like having this as part of my life. I hope you are and will keep reading. I always write that I love you. I’m imagining fucking you from behind, lost in the dream of slamming a sex toy with my dick until you purr, “Michael, terrify yourself with a life without me.” My draw drops, I freeze and let out a loud, shuddering groan. I love you, Mistress Lea. And if you were wondering, I don’t want to be this person. It feels like a bunch of things I know are true but don’t experience. I hope we get a chance to find out who I am after ten years of not really being anybody. I hope you see that person in me and show him or her to me without saying it’s me, so to speak, when opportunities arise until I understand that it is me and ask for your help in becoming him or her. Mommy stuff. You’ll take to it.

Mistress Lea, I’m sorry if you don’t want to read this, but I really need to haver to. It’s hard to imagine being filth like some of my neighbors are. Not one person in two hundred. I thought if I just listened to music and ignored people today . . . I love her still, clearly, but I can’t talk about it because then people would accuse me of being obsessed with her and use it as an excuse to torture me. I’m angry, very sad, and frustrated while acknowledging that this is the way my life must go, but I can’t say that either because lies would be woven into those words, and they would be used as an excuse to torture me (worse) for it, So I sat in stoic silence, enduring their cruelty as best I could until eventually, I began writing my lawyer. Ted Miller @ Cooper, Spong, & Davis. I can’t recommend him enough. But, I know, right? These people aren’t even acceptable as human beings. But you’re missing something. “Excuse” is the operative word. They’re a laughing stock, a thing of shame when they accept their place in this world and need to be kicked back into the blood and mud and have their face ground into it when they forget it.

Their final excuse is that “they” — the pronoun was ambiguous when given — was that they wanted to make people to believe that Elaine somehow came out on top. I don’t believe this for a minute since their cruelty began around 4pm and as late as 8pm, her boyfriend spat at me, “All she does is cry and talk about you.” Complete idiots on the loose have reasons they’re just . . . the logic is there, but it’s not valid? They’re sadists and sadists are cruel. I know, I know. I’m not stupid. Sadomasochism is the central strand of love and by torturing me, Elaine and her boyfriend have made me a third party of their relationship, and when I say nasty things or write my lawyer, they get their masochistic trip. They don’t give a damn about each other, likely. They’re just “in it together.” Against me. Life sucks.

So, asked if she “won,” I said she can have points for taking advantage of me if she wants them, though I wouldn’t assign them. She didn’t ask for much at all of what I did, she just needed a lot of it. So, why? Two big things, I don’t think anymore can reasonably be asked of me. I would never believe her that she’d gotten off crack.

So I took a day off everything except showering and, at 1am, it seems they might be through with their eleven hours of cruelty. The last week was rough, more so than the one before it, but the three before that were like a tropical vacation. Not being victimized with hate crimes in my own home at other people’s pleasure. Because I’m a schizophrenic who’s still intent on doing something in this world.

It seems plain that minor psychopathologies cluster towards the lower end of the socioeconomic spectrum. Narcissists and people with OCD hate me. But I remember F Scott Fitzgerald’s joke, “The rich are different. They have more money.” One woman who was flirting with me through the window, a woman who posed in her bikini, holding her law degree, referred to people such as us as “the arisen ones” which made me think she was a Republican. Democrats are more the type to say with a wry smile, “the enlightened ones.” Likely, among more wealthy people, I’m likely to encounter more fear of social stigmatization, and a pettiness that seems to come with intelligence that would lead to smaller nips that don’t run in sprees, but are perhaps more regular.

Mistress? I have to change my locks this weekend because I have some jewelry and it’d probably be gone in four months because of Elaine’s crack smoking. You don’t have to worry about this coming out of my past. What I really want right now, more than anything at all, is for you to feel I’m doing well with all this.

Someone named Miriam — you might have spoken — told me it might be four more months to bring a halt to it. It might take three after that, but my trajectory in life will shoot off when I shake some of the negative conditioning. I’ll never be the person I would have been. It just went on too long and was too constant. The trauma might mostly dissipate in three years, but some of the other changes are permanent. If Ted doesn’t do it as a representative of the trust, I’m going to get $10,000 together and ask to retain him. The information he’s gathered is likely invaluable. He must either anticipate this or be acting on his own. My aunt is the executor and he’s intimated that she’s stealing and her behavior towards me is abusive. Refusing to reimburse me for a special boot for a broken foot that I took out of my food allowance. Quite a number of things like that.

Two lawyers, one middle-aged, one older, moved in as roommates two doors down. Into a $160,000 condo. They don’t work with Ted though they’ve done small things to help, calling him. Are they with the corporation that owns the condo complex? Perhaps. Perhaps my aunt has retained two lawyers full time to install there to determine if I meet the legal definition of insanity when my reality testing is nearly rock solid — not knowing the difference between right and wrong — to deplete the trust? It’s likely the latter. Ted told me that last time he was here, “Don’t press charges. I’ve got her.” He’s probably been gathering evidence for a year. It’s how he thinks. If you’re in the right, get every last domino in place and you’re sure to win when they tip over.

I feel like I can’t do anything right now. And I want you so much. I might be back in a bit.

If by some chance we ever marry, I’ll let (even want) you to brand me.

I’ll find the artisan and foot the bill. After all, it’s your wedding present. I’ll either need two Percodan and one hell of a pep talk or a lot of liquor. Oh, since you might be wondering, I’d be willing to go 2″ to 4″ on the longest side. And, yes, I would likely get my favorite tattooed for color. The price? You have to come slumming with me. Not in Virginia Beach either, not some dive hole in the wall. A beer and shot bar with an urn of pickled eggs on the counter. A bonfire in a trailer court. The lowest I’ve sunk.

You know, seriously? I’ve had friends from a wide array of backgrounds and I feel I’ve done nothing but benefit from it. I haven’t seen the opulence you have, but I’ve seen enough to pretend to be nonplussed at essentially anything. One of my roommates was the president of the student body of Virginia Tech, though not the year I lived with him. I have a friend that started a software company, Logi Analytics, that he sold in 2021. I don’t know how it did under his stewardship, but it now pulls in $15.4M in revenue. I have another friend who gives guitar lessons. Who cares? One friend, and I’m slow to use that word, dropped out of school in the seventh grade, has had his jaw broken three or four times in bar fights, has done a year in prison, and has a knife scar that has to be seen to be believed. Oh, and a crack habit the size of the five boroughs. When Elaine was raped, I told her to call Doug and the guy who raped her was gone the next day. Neither had your typical childhood experience and I knew he could reach her. And come up with something good to do to the guy. He would have been her first stable, long term relationship in this world. I’m proud to call Doug a friend. Incidentally, if you ever want to see life from the other side, his last name is Crockett and he lives in Salem, Virginia. Get a free three-day subscription to Intellus and get his number. Tell him a little bit about us. He’d never call me. And, please, thank him for his time. Doug might not be in the mood to talk to you, though generally he’ll talk your ear off. Oh, this is the most important thing! At some point as him, “What do I really need to be doing?” Make sure you use exactly those words. Lastly, if there’s a lull in the talk, ask him if he knows any jokes. Ask him what makes the joke funny after he tells it too. Believe me, you’ll come away with a smile.

But I’ve been up all night and sometimes when I make those, partly because of the content i guess, because there’s no one else in here, I get crap for it. I’m worried my mental state’s a bit too fragile for that right now. I’m going to edit the work story or write more for the other.

I did the right thing last night, didn’t I? Something that was good.

Nineteen hours. It took four anxiety tablets to do it and mine have three day half-lives, so I’m a bit under it today but managing to be somewhat productive. Cleaning, applying for jobs. I was going to go for a walk, to get a break from the screen as much as anything. I’m very slowly editing “Working Under Mistress Lea” if you want to give that another look. I was going to get some coffee and work on the “Something Tamer” if it’s not too painful/anxiety producing/whatever. I wish I had more to say. I looked into the open source stuff for a few hours tonight. I picked my project but I need to know Python, so I’m going to order a book and try to hold myself to a dead minimum of two hours a day with it. I was also considering learning how to cook just a little bit. Everything I can think to do that’d be good for me is just an extension of something that’s already there. Cooking two meals a week would be like opening a new compartment in life.

Elaine’s out of the psycho ward. I only spoke to her to see if she was getting rid of the guy who turned her onto crack. She’s giving him four days to leave, four days that she’s spending in her bedroom with her light out so he doesn’t tap at the door. One of the joys of being a woman, I guess. I recognize the destructive force she’d be. Her age and her personality disorder. I think I said this in one of my videos. She’d be someone to build a life with, and a large part of that would be building a career. Dr Lee, I’m forty-seven. I missed out on building a career and, without naming them, it’s low on the top ten list of things I want to make up for. I don’t want to get in at 7am, leave at 6pm, and spend 8pm till 10pm in a recliner, leisurely getting ready for the next day. There aren’t enough years left for the money that would come with that responsibility to be worthwhile. Elaine dreams of the best parties, the finest restaurants, lavish events spawned by God knows what. I want a crescent shaped sofa far too tasteless for anyone to make to migrate about with you on, a sheepskin rug of unlikely dimensions, a dressing chair. You know, the important stuff. The gender stuff? Depends on what you want when you see what you like of how far it’s gone so far. To avoid feeling pinched, I need about $2000/month for the necessities of life that bleed you dry at an average person’s income. Any income after that is effectively spending money. If you don’t want me to feel that I’m going without, I would vastly prefer any other money to be spent on something you want me to have. My mother manipulated me with money. You likely went through the same thing in your marriage. Better to be manipulated with money than not to have money, but it seriously damages relationships.

I’m sorry that I’m distant. It’s what I brought up before. One or two more days. Please believe that I love you. I don’t want to believe that I won’t have you. It makes me feel that the woman I love more than anything in this world never spoke a true word. I wish I knew what I am to you. That floats through my mind so, so much.

I’m going to cut myself off. I work in a sweet, blathering entry when the numbness fades.

I’ve been clicking around, paranoia spinning, trying to determine what the number of page views mean. I stopped by the Google search console to see if there was anything new. You have a good point with “shrine of conceit.” I’m sorry, Mistress. I still don’t know quite what appeals to you. Do you want to hear sweet sentiments, confessions of being helpless in being bound to you? Do you want to know what goes on in my head besides you? Do you like the raw honesty I think I’ve captured a few times?

Okay, so my day. The dumpsters are full so I can’t get the trash out till the truck comes at 6am. I don’t like applying for jobs in the middle of the night. The rest is like I laid out. I think I’m going to need a third dexedrine.

You worry about me. You must. You worry because how I feel is predicated on all-too-real fantasy. You worry for yourself, certainly. And maybe some for me. You probably worry more that you won’t live up to what I believe you are. That’s really not a concern. If memory serves, who I think you are paints onto you very well. I’m sad because you don’t love who you were with me when you were perfect.

I’m feeling afraid and hurt. I might seem distant for two or three days. I do this every other month for as far back as I can remember. Don’t doubt that I love you and that you’re the only thing worth wanting in life too me if . . . I guess it’s already started. I can tell you what it feels like then, if you were hear, I could self-hypnotize and you could explain how it’s wrong to have those feelings as a reaction. I’m angry at you because you know something that has no word for it but stretches back farther in my past than I can see, but I’m probably wrong. I’m angry at you that you think it’s right, and I’m probably right. I wouldn’t love you as I do otherwise. The tether between my heart and your possession of me is strained and hurts. Sharing that turns me on. Perhaps you feel reluctance because you know my desire to pour into you and know you to the point that I can see the world through your eyes, with your heart. I’ll always love you, Mistress Lea. I write that and say it so often and I suppose I keep hoping the words that surround it lend it additional credence.

Lend sense to my world, Mistress.

I finally understand that it’s so and that I have no control over it.. It’s an enormous relief. You’ll turn me into the person you want me to be when you want me to be that person and I just have to remember the urge to change is natural and being mailable is the right way to be. It takes a lot of the stress off. A lot.

You see, you control not only my behavior but what I think and how I feel about things. I know you already know how to bring this to bear. The only thing is trusting it. I also know that you’d feel a sense of satisfaction if I came for your pussy after this breakthrough but I can’t after three hours of sleep last night and none the night before. I’m scared to get my toy out though I know I should. It feels like succumbing too easily, granting you too much power. Though I haven’t worshipped your pussy in too long. Give me one day to live with this sense of dread and guilt for not pounding my slut hole. Your pussy deserves it. I was fantasizing about eating it.

Mistress, I only ever masturbate to you and Mommy. Just for the record. For ten years now.

I’m scared. I know I should get my toy but I just can’t help but be a petulant child who doesn’t want to hurry into something he feels is overly submissive. I’m sorry, Dr Lee. Please forgive this hiccup at the start of things. I’ll do what is desired of me tomorrow. I love you. And I’m scared of displeasing you right now. See things my way? This would be the first thing I’d really rather not to, and I worry to feed your contempt and not your vanity, since four hours ago understanding that you can make me do anything with a little force — this is just an intuition. I’m sorry you’re going to bed unsated, really sorry, but if I did this it feels like it would somehow unmake how I like to understand things. If I am just an instrument you play upon then what is mine but the experience of being played? I guess I can be okay with that. I’ll drink some water and feed my sissy hole what one day will hopefully be your dick in the hopes that your pussy derives a sense of power from it.

I would have guessed it would feel different to do what was expected of me. I feel demure, pretty, and somehow soft instead of pleased with myself.

Oh, btw. Eight job applications and laundry. Not as much as I wanted, but i spent a lot of the afternoon lying down from low sleep. I’ll go for a walk tomorrow in addition to getting the downstairs swept and mopped. In addition to jobs. And two phone calls. Things have only be quiet with sporadic flare-ups for three weeks and I’m already bouncing back tangibly. I’m going to make this happen. What could any schizophrenic want more than for his delusion to manifest itself. Thank you so fucking much, Dr Lee, for giving me this chance. I’ll screw it up, I fear. But maybe you’ll give me another. My God, I could fall to your breast for twenty minutes right now.

Dr Lee, I had to wait 45 minutes for the dexedrine to kick in so I made you a video. It’s uploading now. Also, you must be curious:

It’s a ridiculous pose, but one of the very few photos I have.

I went upstairs for six more, repeating to myself, “Mistress Lea owns every part of me.” I feel like *such* a good boy and my dick hole is positively humming. I know you want to fuck me in the ass. I do. And you know how bad I need that, how I need it to be a kickoff to things. It’s part of me. You own it. No depriving yourself, Dr Lee.

I feel inadequate and confessing that I feel inadequate turns me on. I want you to see the truth in me that I worry you do not and I want you to hunger for more? Why? I want you to desire me. Sexually. Emotionally. I want to be a beverage that always leaves you thirsty. I love you and I’ve come to accept that’s not enough. But if you truly knew how happy I could make you . . . but of course I want you to make my fantasies come true as well, though I think we share those. I’ll never be yours to please you. Only this, the abject, unloved raw understanding that I belong to you that hurts and turns me on again. I’m huddled away in a corner of a mind that’s filled with you. You want this, I know. I don’t usually feel like giving it to you. Mistress Lea? Christ, if you knew the longing. It consumed day after day after day for years. My existence means nothing if I am not feeding my cum to your womb. It will have been torn off like register tape and left blowing in the wind. Mistress, I’m going to ask for something. I want a signal that something with you would be possible, something I know is real but other people would pooh-pooh.

I swear to fucking christ I would make a wonderful gift to unwrap.

Now I’m wondering what I could share that would turn me on again. It would surely be that you don’t believe me for one damned second that you own me but raise a finger and you’ll see. I’m drowning in love, Mistress. As sad that I can’t tear you farther from your life. My breath tastes like metal on my tongue. And I hurt for you. Every inch of me, sore, jabbed with a blunt object.

I just tried to masturbate to ease the pain but could hardly breathe for minutes until the word “Mommy” pounded in my head just once.

“Mistress Lea owns every last part of you.” That was what I had to integrate. It’s hard now, being so open. It spun off into hallucinations, “Mistress Lea owns every last part of you.” Two voices going at once. But then it popped and I knew and masturbated furiously to orgasm. But what’s odd is that I already knew that. I guess I stopped believing. Something for you to take note of, maybe.

So I’ll always be yours. Life will never be complete without you. Existence will not make sense. You own every last part of me. I am your humble and obedient servant in all things.

Michael

Today was a good day. I got everything done I set out to do. Later this evening, I’ll cum for your pussy. Coming back to this site gave me a warm, floating feeling. Just seeing the titles of the posts, feeling some of the love I feel for you. Fear as well. Fear in certainty, that you are Mistress Lea. I’ll always love you and it is a perfect love. I’ll make a video later when passer-biers are less frequent and people are less likely to think I’m insane. Dr Lee . . . you possess me. Throughout.

Straterra carries a side-effect for a few men where you ejaculate before you orgasm, which makes it impossible to orgasm during sex because your erection begins to shrivel. I’ve only ever orgasmed inside my own Mommy, and now I know the only woman in the world that’s right for me would be my Mommy as well, and I will be her daughter. I want her to make me!!! Not force me, though yes, but make me. Take who I am and turn it into who I should be. Her baby, eternally spraying cum into her. At the center of it, but an affected maze that left me without knowing who I was. Autopilot and warm, distant confidence without her. Her son and then her daughter with her. Her captive, her pet. Loving her, loving her, loving her. Everything that could possibly all be a part of life without excluding something else. Showing her how I could be hers and finding a way to be hers like finding sex. My Mistress. My fucking Goddess. My Everything. My Mommy. My Mommy with a grip on me, a control over me that there’s no sense in touching on because it’s so hard to believe.

Love is a fucking shadow to what I had with Mommy, and perhaps more of a shadow to what I could have with Dr Lee. Love is a shadow. My coursing,, maddening need. Ablaze with lust, aglow with . . . . I submit to how I feel for her and the rest rises from that. What is that emotion? It’s not love. It won’t die. Devotion. It’s devotion. Devotion without mistrust, without restraint, without any other concern, without reluctance, and without shame. Completely without shame. Pride or doubt would dispel it. It’s in the air that I breathe. I live in a world of pain and bliss that’s so, so, so soft. And just a touch sad that Mistress Lea consumed the person I was and allowed me to be born, and that over the years I’ve reconciled with my new reality with an entirely accepting peacefulness, but that there’s a soft futility to it. As beautiful as this experience is, it means nothing if I don’t act on it. This landscape of a heart . . . maybe someday she’ll want to explore it. No one else will ever be able to.

Mistress Lea, I feel washed though without you. Without you, the colors and shapes that forge reality blend through me and I am insubstantial. I am unworthy of your smile. The very thought of your touch fills me with terror, so loathsome is the core of me. There is no joy in life. There is no peace. I want only to love you, and I want you to make me into the man who can love you the way you need to bee loved. If I cannot love you, I have failed as a human being. My life is a failure. I did nothing good. I only took.

Please, Goddess, make me into something I feel is me again. I loathe this eternal death of being without you. It’s so fucking tedious. And my dissatisfaction masks such agony.

Take me and I will fill you with my love. If not, you will waste the most beautiful thing I know of.

I will always love you. It’s who I am, Michael Janda, the man who loves Dr Lee.

Mistress Lea, to be perfectly blunt, could a boy get tired of fucking his own mother. It’s the same sort of thing. You want to be chased? I guess i should feel up to it. Well, it’ll bring me back to life some. Let me get the job thing taken care of.

I want so much for the only two women I’m ever with to be you and Mommy. I have so many hot new fantasies of you involving me working at ODU as a woman.

I want you to keep the promise you made to my mother. No, I don’t know what it was, but she had you make it for a reason.

I feel I wouldn’t care if she walked.

Mistress Lea, even though you refused contact with me for whatever reason, I can only cum in worship to your pussy or imagining you taking my ass, either way reminding myself constantly that I am yours. I cannot function sexually unless I feel that I am yours.

I feel it’s horribly presumptuous for me to say some of these things but I’m hoping it actually isn’t. I getting a heavy sense that Lea didn’t respond to an email I sent her to test my sanity. I hope that’s the reason. I outline my concerns and take on things in this video. There are enough videos on this site that have me channeling professions of love for an hour on end. Timing with an exceptionally promising job opportunity and and a regrettable mishap with the mute button and the fallout of it that I still simply don’t understand, messages on a YouTube stream that reeked of pain regarding my not having money and me wanting to use her for it and other nastiness.

I suspect Mistress Lea has more money than I’ll ever have. My thought in contacting her was that I still have nearly five figures in the bank and, with the money from the trust fund, could pay for my share of lunches or even dates, waiting patiently at whatever line she wanted to draw. My prediction is that Mistress would find my love so intoxicating that, money not being an issue for her, would urge me to find something parttime or quit all together and play Hausfrau, available to her during the day. I’d settle for an interest-free loan for breast implants, should we go that route.

Something tells me the real issue for Mistress Lea is that she’s worried she’ll want take up the reins of my life with her, that she won’t be at ease with my doting devotion, affection, attentiveness, and pretty words. She’ll want to guide me into being something I am not at present. And I think she fears conflict here. There would a healthy adversarial bent to it, but of course I would hope she would win, leave hints, and likely just plain hand it to her if she put in the work. It’s part of my charm.

That message was left on my phone. I think Mistress Lea is signaling me to contact her. I threw together a brief email:

Something like that. I’d love Lea more. Life would be more comfortable, Lea would not love me. If I could not get a programming job, Lea would be content with something more menial. Feminization might progress with Lea. It’s a hard decision. Might as well do it, I figure. I’ll sleep on it over the weekend.

I just had another go at cumming for Mistress’s pussy. It feels like my whole body lays in worship of her while I rub her dick to spill hot cum for the alter before her pussy. It occurred to me that, emotionally, she’s more of a father to me at this stage of things. Begging “daddy” to fuck his sissy’s slut whore ass while pulling on Mistress Lea’s hot dick was absolutely amazing. So much so that I must have spent a half hour at it, but when my mouth got filthier as I approached orgasm, and I got really, really close four or five times. Not just on the edge, but very close. As my mouth got filthier, I would feel sated and Mistress Lea’s penis would soften despite my hand not slowing. I love you so much, Goddess.

Goddess, I want so much to lay a stream of cum on the alter of your pussy. I spent another forty-five minutes at it, floating in an ocean of love for you. I belong to you, Mistress Lea Lee. I know that as surely as I know my last name. I will only ever be yours. And, Jesus, do I want you to fuck me in the ass. I want to know you’ve claimed me, accepted me as yours. I need to know that you enjoy sliding your dick in and out of my fuckhole, that you understand that I’m a sissy and are okay with it. I need you to take me. I need to cum. So bad, Mistress.

Mistress Lea Lee? Goddess Lea Lee? I can feel the skin pull back from my bones. The torture, the pain, the longing, the love, the bliss. I’m alive again. I’m yours. Forever and only yours. I want you to fuck me on the floor in front of the television, curled in the backseat of a car, in the shower, over the table. Whenever the whim strikes you. You don’t have to signal me to come on to you that evening. You can just take me.

I’ll try to cum for your pussy again tonight, Mistress Lea Lee. I want it so bad, to prove my devotion. Who would think me one for pussy worship? But I want yours to think I am worthy. My useless girl clit is getting swollen again, at the thought that I’ll have another chance to prove myself worthy of your pussy.

I know you can be patient, that you like me masturbating endlessly, loving you, confessing to you, proclaiming your ownership of me. And I love it too. But I’ve been so remiss. Goddess Lea, please believe me. I am not your slut. I am your doll.

I bought seven spycams tonight, Mistress. They’re coming Friday and it’ll likely take me until sometime on Saturday to get them setup. Two downstairs, facing me, one facing the screen, one facing into the kitchen, one directly over head in bed and another as a face shot, and one in the shower. After I get it cleaned. No audio, which is probably for the best.

I don’t know how it’ll work. I’ll probably have to take my internet plan up a peg, which is only $15/month I believe. But you’ll need to log into my router if you want to watch, perhaps.

The problem is you have to peek behind my router to see in. It’s meant to be run from a phone and has its own app. I don’t know if that app will allow the remote connection. And I don’t have a static IP and would rather not explain to my aunt why I need one. There are relatively easy ways around this. The IP only gets reset when the connection blips, but it wouldn’t be much work to run a no-overhead background task that, once every five minutes, would keep a webpage updated with my current address. Authentication? You wouldn’t use the wi-fi password, I don’t think. It looks like their app detects them like wireless devices. Printers, FireSticks ,what have you. So maybe you have to become a part of my “private network” through the phone line. Find a way to turn “Discovery” off and I won’t know you’re there.

I’ll send you some roses with password. By the way, after I sent the last bouquet, I heard someone giggle at the window. Mistress, you were so crazy-angry-weird that one night that I feel reluctant to bring this up, but a little bite would be good.

Oh, and I might be independently wealthy. More on that as I find out more. Nothing soon.

The spycams . . . only one can be hooked to a router at once. At least, I can’t figure out a way. Doing it right might cost $500 or more, so it’ll be a reward pellet for, say, getting the upstairs clean.

I want Mistress Lea only to fuck my ass until the emotional dynamic between us evolves. I can imagine our first time, her pounding me, miles away, lost in a vainglorious dream while I understand that I actually belong to her. I want this, as much for me as for her.

I would prefer that we not have vaginal intercourse until I feel some mother-son love for her. I prefer it to romantic love. It feels like a smooth transition, one that I want to make. In the meantime, my ass will be hers any time, any day, any which way she wants it. It’s how I was meant to be with her.

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?

Lately, I’ve become preoccupied with the idea of Mistress Lea watching me. Always. Or at least always able to. I want to litter the walls and ceilings of my condo with cameras that link to a third party site only she has access to so that I never know when she’s watching. I’ve even considered the fun of creating her a remote desktop on my computer that allows her access to the speakers should she want to say anything. It’s been a fantasy, in a loose sense of the word, of mine for twenty years, and to experience it in a safe environment with her would be so fucking perfect.

It would be even hotter if we hadn’t had sex yet. I know just the right person to invite over to make her jaw drop.

Mistress, I hope you read this. And I hope you don’t mind that word: Mistress. It feels appropriate. I was contacted by a recruiter on Friday about a job that’s three days a week at home and two hours away the other two. It pays quite well. If I get it . . . when I get any job, I’ll write you immediately to share the good news and let you know that, after twenty years, everything seems to be beginning to turn out okay. If the confidence of getting a job can’t spur me on to do that, nothing can. And I’ll ask to see you. I’ve noticed that women in their thirties are more fond of honesty than women in their fifties, but I’ll tell you the truth regardless. I’m still entirely consumed for days on end by my love for the Lea my mind invented on its own and I need to see you to reconcile that person with the reality of you because I feel that I’m betraying you when I just engaging in flirtations with other women. I am yours, Lea, and I can’t have you sitting like a ghost in the corner of any relationship I have. Please help me be free of the unending torment of this love that can find no outlet, help me sate my ravenous need to know. Spend time with me. Lunch every other month, starting with coffee in your office if you want for a bit of privacy. It would help with my shyness. I’m not blind to what I need more than anything in this world, the only thing that was ever worth wanting. It’s just that hoping hurts so bad.

Yours in any and every manner,

Michael

That’s a lot. But then you must know how I feel.

I just know it’s true. She told me, Mommy did, years ago. We talked about it very, very briefly but it was so strange that I didn’t know whether to believe it or not. But I can picture it now, Lea guilty and consoling, wanting to assume the child role to my mother, my role, and have it sexualized the way my relationship with my mother because. I imagine Lea making a promise or two afterward and I want so, so bad to believe that the two made plans for how I would transition from one to the other. I don’t ever want another woman. Just Mommy and Lea can be Mommy. I want this to be true so, so bad.

I worked for my mother for two or three years in my twenties. One night, she muttered out of nowhere, “I slept with Lea.”

Without thinking, I asked, “Did she domme?”

Mommy answered, “No, I did.”

It was just one of those things that you feel would be inappropriate to pursue, though she said later when I asked, “Are you helping me?”

“No, I’m managing you.”

Mommy wasn’t one to lie about those things. It probably happened. I can imagine Lea self-consciously consoling Mommy and then being reassured for her own inappropriate guilt over what had befallen me. Then I imagine the two having sex and afterward Lea making a promise regarding me and the two laying a path for me that would fill that promise, probably while passing a cigarette, knowing Mommy. But it feels important for me to follow that path, which I believe is a transition of Mommies. Mommy surely knew I would always need one.

The first time the word “Mommy” passed my lips while I was fantasizing about Lea, I immediately saw a picture in my mind of her on all fours, wearing a gray cardigan, white blouse, plaid tie, and no skirt. She was smiling playfully. I always felt submissive, sexually, when I imagined Lea so this took me off-guard until a few weeks later when I followed the fantasy, when I became wildly excited by imagining my hands on her waist, using her as a sexual toy, an object of gratification. Then it hit me, her warm, deep, mewl that reminded me she was the woman who had entered my life with a sledgehammer and destroyed it and me without effort. She would be very, very aware of her strength and power over me while I fell into the delusion of her being a nymphette form to masturbate with and nothing more, possessed by her pussy and not her will.

So, though of course a person or two or three might sample my ass before Lea does — and it would be some time before sex with her would consist of much more than my offering up my ass — there’s no reason to pollute my life with regrets when Lea will be the last woman I ever have or need or want. I don’t know how limited my access to Lea would be at first. If I only had ten hours a week with her, it might be half a year before I even begin to feel safe enough to fasten mommy’s face atop hers like wax paper, to melt together. And six more before I feel she is Mommy and my dick belongs inside her.

At the time of this writing, I masturbate five days a week on average, typically start my fantasies with Mommy, but always end with Mistress Lea. Only once have I ever managed to cum while imagining fucking her. Usually my pace becomes frantic and my penis recedes. I’m not sure which causes which. Desperation? Shame? Not Mommy? So, almost always, I cum begging her to claim the sissy cunt slut ass that’s already hers, after imaging taking her dick a half dozen ways.

I’ll keep the calls off of the blog. It seems that’s what you’d want. I love you. It’s been hard lately with the neighbors. This month should be better. I don’t want to think about so much right now, things that would pull me into memories or the future. I am yours through all of it. I wish so much you understood how desperately I need you to claim me. I fucking will always love you, Mistress. I can feel it screaming through my blood, raking at the walls of the veins. I need you. I will always need you. You will have me as your whenever you want. I want to confess my sins to your pussy while you wear headphones, never knowing. I’ll always love you. I’m sorry this is so brief. I hope these words read like cliches rather than the frantic again-understandings of a tortured mind. Yours. Always Yours. I’ll write tonight, discuss what it means to have the reality of me be a manifestation of your pussy when I masturbate. Or something similarly odd.

I raised the Lithium. That seems to be helping. I was just getting ready to write you something and saw someone was on the site. I made this video (takes a moment to load):

It’s about twenty minutes and I don’t know what to write after what I wrote in it. So long as the dexedrine lasts, I’ll keep these daily now that you’re back. If I ever stop loving you, kill me. I’ll have settled for less in life than I should have.

Mistress, I’m shaking with the desire to apologize. I realize I drowned you in a lot. If it scared you, I’m sorry. I won’t ask you to overlook it because that’s likely impossible, and also because all of it was genuine. And, yes, something of a taste of what would happen in real life. It would not be an error in judgement but simply something I could not help. I could limit it to phone messages or emails, could even be cute about promising not to write more than five emails, but I would have to write them because I’d want you to know how I was feeling because it would be so wonderous to me. So, if you downloaded the stream — it doesn’t look like anyone watched much of it — you have some idea of how I feel. If you haven’t seen it but read this, you really should watch a bit of it. I’m not so nervous now. I’m aglow with love for you and turned on that I’ll always be yours. I decided in the last month that I need to make an effort to lose weight. I’m acting on it too.

I want to cum inside you, and cum and cum and cum and cum. Lately, the semen just runs out of my penis in a fifteen second orgasm that leaves a hot sheet on my belly. Once a week, I want to lie beneath you and talk about how you own me, how I’ll love you forever, how you control my soul, until I orgasm. Mistress, I’m sorry. I need you so fucking bad.

I was touching myself a moment ago and I didn’t climax because I didn’t need to. But it’s so amazing to say the words, “My hand is making your dick feel so good, Mistress.” They become true and I understand that I should never imagine anyone else, except maybe Mommy every now and then. I feel so much that I belong to you and — this is really great — I feel that I spill my cum at the alter to your pussy. I call myself your mindless cunt slave. I love worshipping your pussy, Mistress. It gives me a sense of purpose, of identity even. I want so bad for you to claim my ass. It’s so yours, I’m so yours, I’m so completely yours. It would feel so natural to be drawn through life by your pussy, not in a sexual sense, but . . . .maybe you know. I can’t think of another way to phrase it. To have it draw me through the decisions I make to be close to you. I’ll get back to trying to lance my balls with your dick so I can spill an offering of cum at the alter of your pussy. Please don’t be too weirded out by this. It’s not some dark perversion. It’s a joy. My body feels to so perfectly fit into the world around me and my soul feels like a prisoner inside it. But as the reality of my cunt worship takes hold, there is only bliss and understanding that it is so — that I am in fact worshipping your pussy and, in doing so, I commune with perfection, the literal subjugation of myself to your vagina.

I feel hurt that I’ve neglected you. All the explanations don’t change the fact that I did it. I hope you forgive me. It seems such a small thing on one hand but so important on the other because of what it reveals. The sexual fantasies. They’re veering away from my emotions. The one with the . . . the long one. I’m just telling you in case they feel out of sync. A young man possessed by you . . . where can I go? I am alone and you seem a lifeline and I’m worried that discredits how I feel about you. But then I don’t want anyone else in my life. I have everything all figured out. After twenty years, I have everything all figured out but you’re right because it’s easier that way and it’s how I learn and I’m bound to be wrong. What if I cry at night while I promise you I’m happy? What is my love if it does not please you? And what is my loneliness if you do not toy with it? These are my doubts this morning. This is my fear. Of you. And it is selfish and two-sided. What if you remake me? I expect it. I want it. I want to be Michael, the person that loves Lea. There is almost nothing if not nothing I wouldn’t give. The fear is that I will become an afterthought, a neglected toy. I know this is a lot, Mistress. But it’s more honest than I’ve been in a bit. I love you. You’d be amazed to know how much.

Mistress Lea? I never so fully feel like myself as when I’m being fucked in the ass. That means, I will feel most myself with you when you’re taking my ass, meaning more than any other single thing, that will define who I am.

Mistress, if it’s you who’s been calling, except for last Thursday, I never thought it for a minute. Do you honestly believe I could think you wanted me so much? Or was that the point. Christ, I’m getting hot. Do you know that I love you more than I can (CAN) love anyone else or do you . . . you need to be reminded of my devotion to you, don’t you. If it’s what you want, I will always be yours. It could not be otherwise. I have only my opinion of myself for helplessly belonging to you to monitor. But it will feel right. I know it will. And, because it feels right, it will make me happy. I know it will. What could make me happier to belong to you and to be yours and for that to be the way it should be? I’ll always love you. Maybe someday, you can understand that it extends forever inwards, that the only person I want to be is the person you want to be with. Mistress, this is . . . it’s motivated by love. If it sounds otherwise, please believe it’s written for love. A very strong impulse tells me to stop. I love you. Always.

I sent Mistress Lea a dozen red roses and now this site gets no traffic. Maybe she’s worried about things snowballing, and I know I want that encouragement. I’m afraid and I don’t know why except . . . Christ, I feel her inside me, right behind my eyeballs, telling me it’s new and that I am wrong for understanding she can’t take understanding that I can’t help feeling wounded and terrified that she’s disappeared. I just want to retreat somewhere to a place I know she liked the flowers and a place it doesn’t matter because I love her and I have her with me and I shouldn’t dare take a chance right when I know what to do, when I know she’d come back to encourage me or as a reward. I feel the knowledge that I am hers, painful but shining warmth all through me — Mistress, I can feel when I belong to someone as a rope, endlessly coiling and tightening behind my beltline. It scares me because I have no idea what’s important to you. And it hurts because it feels like you cut into it a bit to watch it bleed. I heard the “mmmm” on two of the calls. If that was you, you sounded pleased. The stress of thinking it was you was making me crazy and I had to stop answering. And this panic. I don’t know how it sounds, how comes across, to be light grazed by what I want most in life and for it to disappear, possibly forever? There’s a reason, there’s a reason, there’s a reason. My head throbs those words but I can’t see it. How could you have left me alone with this horrible torrent of need so that I can muse that you wounded my knowledge of my possession by you so that, in bleeding, I would notice it as true. I hate to have to tell you that I want to be with you because of how afraid and angry I become when I use such simple words. My fingers feel mangled. My fear comes in waves, making my chest and head buzz. While I imagine you, reaching toward the light to commune with the divine.

Oh, you’re getting more flowers next week. I hope you were planning on it.

Mistress, I had some bad news today. But that can be for another time and it really doesn’t affect much, just a failure. I hope you got the roses. It’s the first time I’ve been forward in twenty years. I had a number of prank callers of late. I think it was the neighbors, that they antagonize me and then try to make sure I’m sane. But it was pretty much just today. I thought it was best if I treated them at face value. Maybe some other day? I’ll completely break character and talk about you till he hangs up. Not tomorrow, please. And I can’t name a day because it isn’t you. So you see how good it would be for me to get more strange calls so they stop annoying me for being duplicitous. Mistress, this will not be a problem, not unless you start coming up with weird reasons in interpreting what I honestly claim is people harassing me by wanting me to donate bibles to the library.

Okay, the actual truth. I was miserable and angry that I couldn’t be sure it was you. It was just a phone call that I didn’t want because it’s fucking crazy to think otherwise. I might not be able to allow myself room for those things because of previous behavior and because I don’t have a good grasp of how the paradigm of meeting someone new goes.

But I am sorry that I feel sad and closed off. Maybe you sense it and maybe you don’t. With all the pills and the crazy itself, a cold can put in bed for two days. Today was worse, but I’m still washed out. I’m only bringing it up in case you view it as bad timing too. I really want you to see that I’ve been serious about all this, Mistress. I even meant that I want to marry you if you slept with my mom. Partly, when we wake up the next morning, how does it feel to wake up on the day after your wedding for the third time? So, where have you been? I haven’t seen you in my dreams since I was 28 or so. We were at the zoo and you need to give yourself an insulin injection. You seemed so . . . weak. You seemed to be giving into some sorrow or darkness that I couldn’t see, leaving me behind. You probably hate cruises for being commercialized. Personally? I wouldn’t mind a theme park for adults. Maybe I just haven’t tried it yet. But that seems like a good place to kiss you long enough that you gently push my face a way and say, “That’s enough” in a soft voice and with a smile. Then I get to defy convention and say talk to you in above room tones about how I want to get lost in you, how I feel your tongue and lips speak to me. And that they answer questions I ask with my mouth and tongue. So, please, indulge my fearful insecurity and let your tongue flow into my mouth too so it can ask about the pain of being without you. I can picture you raising both arms at your sides with bent elbows and smiling only because you forgot to stop smiling, and thinking, “What does this man do to me?” God, I love you. I drink about five times a year. This would be easier with alcohol, not telling you these things. Just the moment. My chest is tight with panic, I’m not happy with the tone I’m using. But my role in life is to love you. So don’t think the flowers were anything but what I felt I was supposed to do. Two confessions back . . . as I wrote it, I because increasingly sure I should send flowers. I put the picture on my blog in case you read it so you steel yourself for it. But it is honestly that. It felt more and more as I wrote that the appropriate thing do was to send flowers. So I did. And the confidence that you might see as evidence of I don’t know what. I think it’s much more that the world didn’t stop spinning. I don’t know what I expected. A call from Tina that you had called and wanted me to leave you alone? Mistress, I really do understand that it’s my role not to ask for anything, not even you — though that might change. Never in here though. But I’ve always wanted a French Maid outfit. Not erotically themed costume unless it’s a really good one, but the real deal. I already have a feather duster. I could do your downstairs every Sunday for a month to pay it off. It’d be good for me. If the thought’s ever crossed your mind, it’d almost certainly be exasperating beyond words to play governess. “Michael, I will tell when you’re behaving inappropriately and you will them stop when you realize it is best that you do. If you take more than two weeks, I will fuck someone else and you will accept it because you can’t live without me. And at that point, you will stop.”

I know I’m wrong about something very important, but I’m too scared to think about it because of what I might run into. And also I’ve had probably literally thousands of fantasies about seeing you And I was made a fool of in each. So I’ll call when I can, which might be three months, but likely no longer. I’m very curious to find out who I am with you. I have what my shrink termed “a fluid sense of identity.” So I’m very different with different people, provided I’m comfortable enough with the person and, well, want to participate. So whether I return to how I was when I talked to the hallucinations or . . . I don’t know what? How overtly submissive I feel? I am uppity about being submissive if you remember right. I’m not getting at it yet. I just know I’ll feel very different about myself and then try to allow you to guide me into the person you would rather be. And that’ll be in the first ten minutes.

Mistress Lea? I think you remember that I require patience. I’m not so bad as I was back then, but you have to let me screw up without viewing it as evidence that all I’ve said and written are lies. Please, Mistress? If you want, ask me why I did it and I’ll tell you and I’ll be completely honest.

Just in case the phone calls were yours and you felt rebuffed, you do still know that I’m yours and at the very top of things I want from life, I want you to claim me.

Mistress Lea, I didn’t mean to cut of the last entry early but I had the strong sense that I should do something you thought I should do.

One thing that occurred to me, Mistress,. is that when I fell in love with you and the Lea in my head, I was still a virgin, so that love is the love of a virgin. You are as close to perfect as anything can be in this world and there’s not a single other thing I want. My life should become nothing at all but laying the groundwork for a shot at a relationship with you. Loving you as a virgin loves you entails thinking there cannot be a substitute for you that I would not loathe an hold in contempt. You are utterly unique in this world and you cannot fail to live up to that if I love you because I could never ask for more than love, not expect anything more than love. Just twinkling amber eyes, a smile and a slow nod when I hover over you and tell you that a lifetime of pain has come to an end: “There’s no other way, Mistress Lea. None. There’s no way to move forward except you manipulating me into follow your pussy. Mistress, I’m sorry, but I’ve become a mindless cunt slave. Not because of sex but because I love you and obey without inner conflict so long as you use your cunt to guide me. Submitting to your bitchy moods is a pleasure. Submitting to your desires gives my life purpose. It’s only with your dick in my ass or for a few fleeting seconds after I spray my cum in your womb that I understand without knowing what I understand. I think I understand who I am to you and it frightens me and shows me there’s no escape at the same time, which makes me very happy. Knowing I will love you until I die gives my life a sense of closure. My Mommy was everything to me to hand me off to you, not just the woman of my dreams or the woman I love in a way no other person can, but also the woman I feel I should be with, the woman who is right for me given the ways I have grown since I first learned what your penis could make me feel. Was it ever in Mommy? I know my dad would be terse relaying my condition while my mom could talk for hours about me. I imagine you and she screwing and you actually being the submissive one to feel like her daughter as I am her son. She told me this once, muttering as we sat across from each other. I think it’s a perfectly good thing and I don’t know what else you could have done to come close to me in the oblivion of eating Mommy’s pussy.

Where was I. Oh, I think I could keep a vow of monogamy with you but no one else. I’d very much like to see my penis shrivel after withdrawing from another woman because I was overloaded with stress. And then telling you about it and you asking me the reason it happened and explaining to me that that reason was predicated on what I could not see or lied to myself about, the whole time with your head on my should and my hand tugging my penis, waiting till I felt I had permission to cum:

“I just wanted to fuck her, Mistress.”

“You’ve told me you feel you commune with your own soul when we screw. Why would you want to have sex for purely mechanical reasons?”

“It was that I wanted to prove to her that I could fuck her.”

“When I wasn’t around to lay rules and call shots, when I couldn’t watch?”

“I’m sorry Mistress. I’m new to me.”

“I understand quite well. Michael. I understand you quite well. Here’s what we’re going to do. My dick was in that woman’s pussy so I won’t allow it in me for a month. During that time, when I fuck your ass, you may not touch my dick. You may only cum if you need to. I’ll bend you over something in the dining room because of the wood floor. When you cum, you may lick it up if you want to cut short the month. Oh, but I’ll not let you keep my cum. You will feed it to me like to a baby bird. I want all of it, Michael. Do you understand? I want all of your cum.”

“Why?”

“Fucking whore. If fuck you deep and fast to get a cum from you, then it’s my cum. My dick. My cum.”

“But why?”

“Because you will understand that I’m right when it happens, that your cum is a catalyst for you becoming entirely mine. It’s a step toward you understanding that your reason to be on this planet is to want to fuck me, that every thing else, even about us, means nothing. You do not find purpose in loving me. You find it when I pound your ass, when you realize. Don’t you remember? When you are most your self and understand something so obvious to me, that you exist to coat the walls of my womb with the cum I make in you. You are my mindless cunt slave, but you don’t feel shy about it, do you? You take pride in it, sissy. You take pride in it because you can only eat it yet still, when you are most yourself, you feel yourself beholden to my pussy slime as though you could die from withdrawal if you ever stopped eating it. I fuck you so you see that you’re a slave to my pussy. that my dick submits to it again and again, filling it with hot cum, draining who you are from you until you only know your duty as my bitch is to surrender your soul to me. By fucking me. And I won’t share it, Michael. I will have all of it. Your soul. And then you will be dependent upon me to even want sex, to want anything but to finally be my litter girl. “Then you kiss me and say, “Try to last the whole month. It would be a sign of your desire to be my slut fucking daughter. Roll over on your side. I want to sample the hot piece of ass your mommy made again.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Michael?”

“Please, Mistress. That would let me be more honest, to tell you the truth without shame, without the fear that you no longer want me as yours.”

“You would still want me and I would stay. For your love, baby.”

“Forevver yours. Your Michael and soon your Nicole.”

“Yes, baby.” You slide two finger in me to loosen me up.

“I still can’t believe fucking you two days in three for those first three months completely destroyed your rectum. It looks more like your pussy than your asshole.”

“It only exists for you.”

“Explain why.. No? I’ll tell you.”

I should get back to loving you until I die, Mistress Lea.

I know you know my mind hasn’t strayed. I lanced my testicles with your penis yesterday to vent hot cum for the alter of your pussy. Tomorrow night or the next, I’ll get all dressed up and pound my own 🙁 ass to a squealing, keen of an orgasm that the neighbors will hear across the parking lot and know you believe I deserve to be pleased and the fact that it’s you I’m begging to be fucked by will alleviate your worries some. I’m only yours. I can’t place that in the right part of your brain, it seems. Mistress, I’m only understandable if you can see the nonsense beneath the words and find a home for your idle thoughts as they’d be precious fantasy to me The last ten months, my only source of happiness has been experiencing love for you. It wasn’t a mean trick. It was the good thing to do, the right thing to do. I know because the way I feel about everything in life now that love for you pumps through my veins at least once a day, all of it, tells me this is right. It might not be for the best, but it is right. And understanding such a simple truth that cannot be doubted makes that truth good, right? Indisputable proof that I do as I should when I monitor you in my head and she has nothing but fond things to say for herself and . . .. . I just heart a faint voice say, “Oh, God.” Then I heard a door slam. I think it was her. I think my Lea doesn’t want to have to watch what she set in motion, when I fell in love with her fourteen months after our dates. She only ever wanted me to love her back. She forgave me so long ago. Now she wants me to love you, to tell you that I have to do something to prove it to you. I know what. I should do. And I’m doing it as much or more for me than any impact it might have on you. I’ll get back to loving you until I die, Perfect.

But no, I didn’t send them. I don’t think.

One thing that I think is interesting is that there’s a pretty linear incline in post views on the Lea Shrine as you go back in time. Nobody goes back to the same page again and again that I can see. They all get equal attention. I should probably put this . . . I wouldn’t know what to make of it if it were true, if she was encouraging me, trying to reassure me that my emotions weren’t leading me to far astray. Mistress, do you know how I do this? Do you know how I turn you towards me to love, and I think I have. It’s humility, or really being humbled by that same love. I can’t tell you how many times I fought back your surfacing within me and then I made the decision ten months ago to stop resisting. Loving you isn’t the majority of my sense of identity, but what I’m driven to by it. I should turn on the camera when I’m hunched over on the sofa, confused and distressed because I just realized that I had done something that you would think I shouldn’t because it flew the face of the best of me, which of course is this.

Mistress, I’m going to try to get fifteen applications out today. It’s your strength that makes me helpless. I hope you aren’t angry, and something tells me you might be, for not having told you the words. Mistress, I’d stand at the end of time for five seconds with you, watching creation become undone. I’ve waited half my life and I’ll likely never be with another woman. Not now.

I went by your ODU site. I noticed that you’ve got a knack with CSS that I would not have believed. I also noted that the files dated 2004 but the “filter” attribute wasn’t supported in Chrome until version 56, which came out in 2016. So thank you sooo much. I believe it’s me when these things happen, that you’re trying to encourage or get a read on me and it make me feel . . . . like I’m lying on my back with my pelvis tilted and legs up and apart. We could probably get me pretty flexible in just six months.

Then there’s that other thing. The thing that I’m insanely timid about. A bit of a Mommy haze has entered into my emotions. It’s not that I want to be your son. Actually, it’s this right here. It’s having exactly how I feel or think or want drop from my mouth with complete ease, which might just enable us to find the trust I crave. But never fear. I will not . . . no, it really is best that I not make promises, Mistress.

Oh my God, I love you.

The Adobe software I subscribe to allows me to find images similar to the image I supply. These came up when I uploaded a photo of Mistress Lea. I see Lea in each of these pictures, no more nor less than the Lea I knew. I know this activity pleases her so I’m happy to spend time at it.

It scares me to know that Mistress is happy with me now I’m imagining her spooning me, her breasts on my back, her voice in my ear telling me all that is true and false, right and wrong, who I am and how I should behave because of who I am, things I might not have seen before because I didn’t realize I was wrong about something. She speaks and I touch myself until in a steady voice, I say, “Mistress I’d like it if you’d fuck my ass now.”

If you want to know more about her, click me.

I feel so desperately that I need to be forgiven. I’m scared and I know it would soothe me. I suspect I’m finally starting to convince you that I’m psychotically obsessed with you, Mistress. I wonder at that word, Mistress, whether it’s something you would want. I imagine you cocking your head slightly to the side, pursing your lips, and thinking, “No, do.” Please remember, Mistress, that I did not assume the burden of always loving you by choice. You really might not have the right perspective. Losing my mind was the most significant event in my life. Falling in love with you was the most significant experience of my life. I’m so afraid that it will be ridiculed and made light of that I never let anyone see the pain. I feel my broken, hemorrhaging heart, beating out, ‘You, I, You, I You, I, You . . .” and I know why. Did I ever tell you how I fell in love with you, Mistress?” It was seventeen months after our dates and ten months since the hallucinations had started, and fifteen since the delusional thinking began. I was vert poorly medicated and I was pacing up and down by three windows in my mom’s guesthouse where I was sleeping. Incidentally, if you slept with her, we’re getting married. I’m serious. I’ll get together a prenup with a no-fault divorce clause and a plop large enough to pique your interest. We need to be soul-fused. That’s all there is to it.

I was yelling at the voices on the other side of the windows, telling them to fucking leave me alone — I didn’t want to be alone but they were nasty and obnoxious that night. They weren’t capable of wounding me yet. I took what pills I was on and then sat on the sofa in silence until a voice I thought was yours chirped, “I’m still here.” That was absolutely all it took. The next two or three weeks of my life was a heaven you cannot imagine. You never told me you loved me, though. You would only say, “Ditto.” I want to stop here, Mistress. My psychiatrist told me years later he would have been more aggressive with the medicine that summer and fall but he was worried I would kill myself if I thought you weren’t still somehow in my life. This is going to . . . I honestly suspect that I’ve spent more time fliting about my head, in love with you, the last twenty years than I have both eating and driving. And I suspect, when it’s there, you love your sense of faith that you and I would work I’m tired of me. I want to believe. And I really don’t want to be imprisoned by my love for you right now, Mistress. I know it’s expected of me, by myself at the least, but when I’m adrift in this ocean of love, I too often wonder if my thoughts are thoughts that would please you. I wonder if my desire to dress up is right or appropriate. I love you and I will never be with anyone but you. I don’t think that pleases either of us too much. Or maybe you think I’m being silly. Mistress Lea, I can’t even think in words right now. A hallucination halfway to the door and in my head at the same time says something every so often: “Why do you do this? Why do you do this to yourself?” I tell it I do it because you would prefer it. It answers, “What, is she all of you too?” I ask its opinion. “I don’t know.” The honest entirety of it is that I want to play with your dick and commune with this fear more fully. Maybe soaking the alter of your pussy with an offering of my hot cum would break the spell writing this has put me under. I know you’d have me beg at it for my own life.

I can’t do that, but I can tell you that whenever I lay an offering of cum at the alter of your pussy — if you ever call me a cunt worshipper, I will come up with a joke bad enough that you regret it — for the thirty seconds of so leading into climax, I have a strong, strong, pervasive sense of understanding that I can’t decipher. I “know.” And I am euphoric and completely at peace at what I know. I know, it’s like I’m a virgin. Who thinks these things, explores these emotions, just for the joy of it? My . . . luck to fall forever in love with you as a virgin. I’m going to leave poems out for you to find, if we ever get out of bed long enough to do more than eat. The bad news is that I need to talk to fill the silence.

I love you, Mistress Lea. I will until I die. It really probably is my function in life. I hurt, thinking about it, how it might go to waste. Yes, I want to experience it with you, but then there’s that other nuance. If it’s only the Lea in my head, it’s only the Lea in my head, but I can make you whole. As many as four times a day. This is my dream, Mistress. That, should you desire it, I can love you enough to make up for the god that failed you.

Mistress, it does sort of go without saying that I have. My goal was simple enough. Perhaps people would believe I’m obsessed with you after I put up an online shrine. As Lea Shrines go . . . well, it’s the only one in existence, I believe. I’m so afraid of lying to you and I don’t think I can tell you what I want you to know without lies of convenience. I only love you. Thoughts come unbidden into my brain that seem to belong to you. I’m sorry that I’m at times so foolishly idealistic as to believe that you are the one person, the only person I can find happiness with. I don’t put you on a pedestal in my head, but the moments when the love swells and swallows me like the sea are the best of the last ten years. I want you to believe it so much but I can’t express it, the love combined with the conviction it is right combined with the joy of that conviction. And there are times when I’m angry at you for imprisoning me with my own desires, making me into a slave to my love, a slave to Lea Lee, making me a slave of this love and every part of me that denies it miserable.

And when the shell of my heart breaks off and drifts away, I see something that I wish you would believe and that frightens me — a fundamental part of my existence is to experience love for you. It hurts, Mistress Lea, and I wish I had never figured that out. Only while touching myself can I understand this thing that is true without worry, without worry you’ll take me and I’ll understand what this means, what loving you means besides to hurt and glow, which I generally beat back with lies born of fear. One lie is that you don’t at all understand. I’ll try to remember that you do, though you can’t explain it either.

Christ, Mistress, you would fucking remake me. I feel like I’m a largely blank slate upon which I want someone to define who I am. Who would you have me be? I’ll wonder some other time. I love you, still more than you can understand.

When I was twenty-eight or so, I’d spend every day at the computer, journaling as fast as I could. It talked back to me with it’s blinking optical mouse with the transparent sides and the two-computer flashing internet icon. I tried to out-flank the forces standing between me and you. I would hold my own until two or three hours before dusk at the latest. And then it would fall apart. Why outflank? Mistress, you need to understand that you were the only thing in my life. To want something else was to want something I simply could not do. I love you so much and you’re starting to see that, I think.

I just finished the author bio and I really do hope you want to fuck my ass, that you’d be turned on that such an enormous love could be so meek, so desperate. You would know by then just how much you meant to me, what I went without, and the pain of your absence. Perhaps we would both discover the counter-point in you to that desire wanting to be forcibly excised through squeals, jabbered words, and shrieks.

What’s likely more to the point is that, given our pasts, it would signal the initiation of a relationship between us and this is the form I’d want that to take because, in part, it makes enormous sense symbolically. It is in fact what we both need, for me to experience the humiliation of being without you and for you to begin to understand my need for you. It also means the other can be put off to a point where I become a bit accustomed to you again. And, yes, when you seem like a mother.

I’ll absolutely always love you, Mistress. And, yes, of course you can fucking brand me. I hope you understand that I have no other path to take. Any path that does not lead towards you leads away from meaning, understanding, love, purpose, and self-discovery — I will not know who I am until you allow me to be the person who is best suited for us. Until then, I am a hush. Without you, I am not less than a person, I am an absence, a void. My soul is a sucking darkness that tears at me. With you, it would inflame and burst, leaving a mind, a heart, and a body that delighted only in your happiness, pleasing you, and doing as you wish.

I want you to see what I know of love. For you, Mistress.

Mistress, why can’t I feel happy that I belong to you? I think I might begrudge myself the happiness of being yours for the spite of not falling prey to my love’s subjugation of my will. It’s silly that it’s a point of pride to me that I hold embracing the truth of who I feel I am to you at bay for the reason that you aren’t available to witness me understanding who I am to you because certainly I am correct. At the least, can I be dough to roll out into Ego Cookies?

You’ll find a way into my life when I reach out because you let me know I’m ready. I don’t believe I’ve given you reason to discount me as someone who will love you until I die. I hope you believe too that we need to fuck to find out who we are to each other. I almost expect to be led, numb and shaky, through the weeks you ensure your safety and integrity, to your bed. I will bond with my own love for you, come to terms with my powerlessness over it and witness your reaction as you take me. I like to think we will be astonished to discover, at some core level, we are of a common mind. I’ll at least know the parts of the spectrum of what I feel you respond to, perhaps what to pursue, what to tease from you, and what to run from to make sure you give chase as well.

Do you get off on tentacle porn? The reason I ask is that I imagine the Lea in my mind crawling out of me like tentacles to invade you. Here I thought those Japanese teenagers were masturbating to the active and passive ends of their libido at once. Maybe it’s just fond preconception. (This is my sense of humor getting the best of me.)

So, since you would rather I look for jobs right now . . . I’ll make sure to remember later there will never be another woman whatever might come.

Just as recently as two hours ago, I felt the desire to have sex with another woman. I’m worried I’ll start to think about a relationship with someone else. You don’t know how this is. You don’t. Lea is my mistress and I love her and all true things in my life flow from that love, all good things that aren’t tainted by bitterness or greed. I love her and I should only ever think about her. I do. Really. I’ll lie in bed and tug on her penis and after a bit of imagining her taking my ass, I’ll start to deliver some stock phrase, something I know is true, something that frightens me, but something I will be astonishingly happy about being true when I understand that it is true. Which happens when I understand that it should be true. So, I’ll go upstairs after finishing this and repeat something like “Mistress Lea’s gaze holds my fragile soul.” Why though?

I was dressed in drag the morning before last and got on a cross-dresser chat site and met a woman there that I got on cam for. I’ve done this before. It was a woman. I started moaning about Mommy. Fuck, I came crying that I would never make love to another woman. Ever. Fuck, which is exactly why I don’t ever want to have vaginal intercourse with Lea. I’ll change my mind, but if she doesn’t have it in her to be Mommy, I’d feel so fucking dirty sleeping with her, like my soul was broken and hollow.

My reticence to see if Mistress thinks this is a good time for me to cum is torturing me. I feel like I haven’t even earned the right to try yet, but I know I only need it to overcome my infidelity, to cement Mistress Lea’s happiness with me again. I love her so much and I’m so fucking afraid she’ll turn away from me if I don’t behave like she knows a girl like me should. I’m sorry, Mistress. It hardly matters. I’ll love you until I die but being broken by remorse isn’t the same as behaving well. I have the savant-like gift of radiating love for you like a beacon and I should illuminate this dark world and the dark corners of my own mind with it. Nothing in me does not love you and nothing that loves you is not right and true. But I’m not feeling right nor true. I’m feeling like a pervert who’s going to use his gift for self-hypnosis in conjunction with masturbation to strengthen your hold over him because it’s the one thing I can do that I know you’d want. I can submit further to my love for you, understand more fully how I’d fight to remain yours. You need to know you own me, Mistress. I’m yours, right? I’m yours. I’m a possession that feeds your vanity. I’m a collection of desires to amuse you, for you to toy with.

If it makes any difference, of course you can . . . allow me to grow into your mate. When I look to you, whether it’s to wonder what you would think or want, or whether it’s to ask rather than looking inwards, I’ll be ready. When I look inside myself because I know the answer is there, I will be ready to grow on my own.

I’m yours forever, regardless. Now may I please play with your dick and apologize so I can truly feel the pain of having turned my back on my love for you for someone who can never mean anything, for someone I want you to supplant. Don’t think what you might. She groomed me for this. She knew there would only be one woman after she was gone and I would not contaminate the transition for the world. Two hours of loneliness in the wrong setting and I’ve sullied myself with the stain of another woman’s memory. It scares me and I worry you want it when thinking about it is making me panic. I want to curl up and die if you don’t know I’m always only yours. I’ll wait a lifetime before I drink from the polluted stream of betrayal. To what, you ask. It’s a betrayal of my love of you, which is right and true and good and pure. Precious beyond measure, it’s all that you are. You are my love for you and I won’t fucking do what I did before and turn on you because you imagine me feeling or thinking something I’m just fucking not.

Okay, I’m going to go tug cum out of your dick as an offering to your pussy. Worshipping your pussy is, incidentally, my very favorite past time. May I please tug cum from my dick, Mistress? It’d make me so happy to float through the agony of remorse and the bliss of understanding that you might be getting to know me a bit. But what does that mean? Fuck, Mistress, what would you have me do? Worship your pussy?

What are we going to do the first time you claim me? I honestly really won’t want vaginal intercourse for a while, likely months. I’ll just ask if I should dress in drag when we see each other and flirt like a fucking whore if I do until it all feels about right. For some reason, you’re absolutely the only woman I’d feel comfortable having screw me as a guy. I’ve known that for about a year and you likely know what to make of it better than I do.

Off I go, to try to convince myself it’s right to climax for the glory of your pussy. God, I love you.

Listen to me abase myself by reveal the beauty and joy I find in the prison of both my mind and heart of helplessly and forever loving my Mistress, the goddess Lea.

I am fated to be hers. My thoughts punish me with confusion and emotions that seem not to make sense. If I decide I want to pursue another woman, I lock Mistress Lea away in my head and then when I let my love for her free again, I feel there is nothing to do to please her when she isn’t here. Nothing but resume my course towards me. I am her possession in many ways, just as she is Goddess, Mistress, and Mommy in addition to . . . I was broken by my desire for her. I needed her and could not have her for so many years when she was the only thing worth having. I don’t come apart in big pieces. It shattered me. I seethed with pain and need for years afterward. But when I reforged myself, it was with love of her. First and last, I am the man who loves Lea. I yearn beyond measure for her to be the person who decides what exists in between. Loving her at times is basking in a shower sunflakes that turn everything perfect. I mean to write that everything is as it should be because I love her, and I am happy even if just for that. For twenty years, I have loved her. And I will love her for twenty more. I hope and know that she will claim me, accepting me as hers. My love will intoxicate her vanity and perhaps eventually warm her heart. She knows I cannot live without knowing how similar she is to the Lea I’ve conceived of. It’s maddening.

That I am hers, she will learn to control me. .She will turn my illness against me in ways we both appreciate are possible. We will perhaps find a setting where all the lights can be extinguished and we can sit apart and I can confess absolutely anything. She can then explain the right and wrong, the truth and misconception, what she thought and what I should think as a result. And when she’s Mommy, when I shamelessly follow her pussy about for direction in life, when we both know, I can screw her. Not until then since my dick only belongs in my mommy’s pussy.

Just me here, but I need to find her a way to initiate before then so my ass gets taken when she wants to take it. Maybe I’ll just ask if she wants me to dress as a woman and that would imply sex. I really want to fuck her. It’s been eight years since I’ve had a mommy.

I just took my ass with the dick my mommy bought me, the dick she used to take me with, her own son, the dick I need so very much for you to take me with one day. I lay on the sofa facing the windows with the blinds open while I did so, not to take pleasure in people seeing, but so they could see and especially so they could see my penis squirt gobs of ejaculate so they know I can get off that way and it’s not caprice that has me want to have sex that way at first. And I also promised whoever might be there that I would not use my hand to tug cum from my penis for you for a full week, that I would only coax it out from my ass. Part of the reason is that I want to establish that I’m withholding something from each of us.

I did all this for me. I feel more whole than before. I feel peaceful, placated by my lust, knowing my ass responds just thoughts of you like that. I want to believe that fucking my ass will be a need that cannot be filled, that screwing it will slake the knowledge of the need, but that the need will not diminish. I suppose it simply doesn’t matter. You will fuck me. And, at the least, I will be grateful for my Karma. And maybe I’ll find something within the experience of you fucking my ass that will help me make sense of us, that I’ll stop railing away inside myself – and you’ve seen the curtain come down. That part of me mostly pleases me because he worships you like a goddess. There’s no shame in abasing myself before your divinity. I am pleased just to have been granted an audience.

So to understand and accept that that’s part of who I am and be okay with it as opposed to taking time out to indulge.

There’s so much fear in knowing that I love Lea beyond what is avaialble to the typical human experience, and there’s doubt that springs from this fear and anger that it might not be so. And other things as well that I’m too tired to get into. But I figured out how. I can’t do it yet, but I figured out how to resolve all of this. I have to embrace the truth that she possesses me the way she would an earing. When I write that I am hers, I do not mean my heart. I look into my soul and see my love for her looking back at me. But I do not mean that either. I’m so scared that it’s not real right now, that she couldn’t play with my head not to get me to do what she wanted me to do but to get me to feel how she wanted me to feel. I am an avatar of love for her and I long for her to play out her fascination with it to my utter helplessness.

“The reason you don’t see is that they . . .”

“They? Again, they? Who are they?” Beth enunciated the statement with two stamps of her foot, her face wearing a strained mask of disbelief and love that belied anger and disgust that I suspected lurked underneath.

“They coin aphorisms.” I said, further manipulating her into the role of straight-man. I snubbed out my cigarette and stood to unlace the violet steampunk she bodice wore to the office, despite the conventions of common sense. “They fucking coin aphorisms,” I murmured affectionately, my midsection swaying slowly. “You know what they say . . .”

“Aphorisms, asshole? That’s why you yell the word ‘cunt’ when I’m not at home.”

I took the hand she held out at the elbow and attempted to press it to my heart but it wouldn’t move. “No, baby. I want to be one of them. That’s why I coin aphorisms.” I smiled into her bulging eyes and stooped to take her breast in my mouth, guiding her down to the carpet.

“Just because you haven’t shit in three days doesn’t mean you don’t have to eat?” she whined in a voice that cracked as my tongue flicked at her nipple as I forcefully sucked her into mouth.

“They’ll say that one day too,” I mewled affectionately, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice.

“When, Bobby, when??” she groaned.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But hopefully soon. Let me explain. I’ll explain everything. I yell cunt because I want to destigmatize the word.”

“I want you to stop.” She placed her hand on the back of mine, making a clumsy attempt to intertwine our fingers. “You’ve got to choose. Bobby? Choose.”

“Between you and yelling cunt?” I mumbled almost unintelligibly, my left hand moving to cradle the back of her neck.

“Oh, holy fuck God!”

“I don’t crap on your dreams.” I crawled up the carpet to hover above her.

“Throw it on the pile with the rest of them,” she spat as I bit her lip and she flooded the room with the smell of her pussy. “You fucker,” she sobbed “I hate my life.” She crawled out from beneath me, weeping openly.

“This is why we don’t drink on the mood stabilizers, baby. You’re not supposed to drive on the railroad tracks either. That’s for the sort of losers who can have fun without alcohol.” I pulled myself to my feet. “Let me get you a scotch. Ice?”

“Water.”

“I can’t hear you,” I called from the kitchen.

“Wah-ter!”

“I think your brother already watered it,” I called back.

“Dick!”

“Do you want your arthritis medicine too?” I asked from the doorway, admiring Beth’s numb stare and bare breasts. I placed her scotch on the end table and squatted down before her. She lowered her gaze to meet mine. “Where are you?” I asked softly, afraid to cup her face as I wanted to for fear it would break the spell. I smiled, “I’ll never know, will I? I will die without knowing where.” Beth’s smile was wry bug genuine, so odd. “You know that you’re worth my while, I hope. I mean, in addition to loving you and wanting to be with you, near you, you’re also worth my while.” Beth blinked and a tear ran down her cheek. I reached for the scotch and took a sip before offering it to her. “Do you want your arthritis medicine?”

“Is early.” Her voice was raspy.

“I know,” I said dolefully, hoping I was half as cute as I felt. “I was just sort of hoping. See, it’s just when you sleep, you sleep so much better with a bedtime story. And I thought of a good one, but I’m self-conscious because maybe it isn’t any good and you won’t like it so I want to tell it to you when you’re too tired to stop me. So I thought you could take a dose later.”

Beth’s mouth grew to a Felix the Cat smile. “Do you want to turn in early tonight then?”

I frowned to hide my amusement and shook my head.

“You want to fuck me while I’m catatonic,” she stated.

“Who doesn’t like getting fucked on the edge of consciousness,” I asked with a shrug, holding onto my act.

“You know I’m okay with your Mommy fantasies.” Beth sat back, crossed her legs, and took a large gulp.

“Boys and their mothers,” I said dismissively. “Any woman would be. It isn’t that.”

“Baby, I’m okay with your mommy fantasies. Yours.”

I shrugged again.

“Oh, is it so you can come on my face again?” She picked up her scotch, seemed set to throw it, then merely splashed it on me. “My fucking face! You didn’t think I would remember that?”

I fell back on my butt, laughing. “You didn’t say anything.”

“Would you like coffee too. Oh, by the way, Bobby, I don’t want you blowing your load between my eyes the next time you seduce me with liquor and opiates and initiate half-consensual sex.”

“‘Initiate’ being the operative word. What were you dreaming about?”

“The Harlem Globetrotters and an ice sculpture pissing motor oil.” Beth looked down at her breasts. “There’s nothing sexier than a woman rubbing motor oil on her breasts.”

I bit my tongue. We’d had this conversation before and I didn’t want to tell her I’d thought of something: raw sewage. I pulled my shoes off and lay on the sofa, wrapping my legs around Beth’s stomach. I unzipped my pants.

“You are so fucking lazy!” Beth cried in disbelief. She held her glass out, shaking her head. “Another, nurse. Actually,” she said, throwing my legs off her and standing. “Bring it to the bedroom. There’s something in there I want you to stick your dick in.”

“I’m not some sort of slut who’ll screw you every last time you’re in the mood.”

“Bobby? Get the scotch.”

Beth’s superabundance of enthusiasm in bed troubled me. I never said anything because I didn’t want her to feel dirty. I understood she was trying to make up for her near-inability to engage in emotional intimacy with her sexuality, so I wallowed in a limbo of sleeping with a drunken, coked up forty-year-old, losing her virginity, too shy to say anything for fear of causing emotional damage. That isn’t fair. She could engage in emotional intimacy with facilitation.

Beth was out of bed and at work when I awoke. I pushed her dog off me twice in the kitchen before reaching down to pet him. “Who’s a good boy?” Beth had raised a surprisingly well-adapted dog despite her lunacy. He wasn’t overly needy and he didn’t beg for every scrap of food he could possibly get. His idea of play was to have his toy thrown once, after which he would preoccupy himself with it. As much as I didn’t like dogs, I liked Ollie. Kukla and Fran, the cats, were another matter. Kukla was bad and Fran was good, or so Beth claimed. In truth, she was projecting her split self-representation onto two animals just at the threshold of self-awareness. They never exhibited any of the behavior Beth claimed they did. I never came right out and said so, but I once tried to gently mock her into seeing my point by telling her, “I don’t think Kukla likes it when you eat after 10pm.” That earned me a “fuck you.”

I opened my laptop on the kitchen table and began a literature search to make sure my lecture notes were up to date for my fall courses. The principle joy of being a college professor was sexually harassing the students near campus. I would routinely call from my car, “Oh, come on, I’ll buy you a unicorn. What the fuck?” at 18-year-olds on the street. The other joy was scrambling for grant money for psychology research that not even the National Institute of Science was dumb enough to give. A colleague of mine was rounding up a run of diabetes research, type 1. Do diabetics feel stigmatized? Do diabetics feel more stigmatized when they don’t stick to their insulin regimen? Are diabetics who stick to their insulin regimen more likely to be homosexual? Do homosexual diabetics who stick to their insulin regimen make responsible use of condoms? (yes) I was presently trying to quantify the negative reaction men had towards going bald compared to women. Women, it turns out, like going bald less, but the important thing is to put numbers to it. This morning though, I was bringing my lecture notes up to date. Until I heard a voice outside the window.

“Why don’t you shut your cunt fucking mouth and leave?” I called, happy the game was afoot.

“Asshole!”

“Yeah? Well at least I have a dick!”

“I’m going to call the cops if you don’t shut up!”

“The cops won’t do a damned thing for you, because you can’t play in a man’s game! Take it up with the legislature.” Now this was interesting. Singular value decomposition was now being used to detect burnout in air traffic controllers. I didn’t know what singular value decomposition was and couldn’t understand what I was reading — I was a psychologist, not a statistician. Still, fun fact for the students. It wasn’t as though any of them would ask me to elaborate.

“You insane prick!” The voice outside yelled.

“Yeah, well at least I’m not a no-good drunk who can’t do nothing for herself!” When I didn’t hear a response, I followed that with, “Hey, cupcake. Why don’t you go home and stick your fingers into the dirty, needy fuckhole you call a cunt and cum like the whore you are? Make daddy proud!” I took a sip of coffee.

Once you begin yelling “cunt,” the tendency is to want to continue, so most of the morning consisted of finding ways to incorporate the word into taunts, insults, jokes, and ostentatiously poor pickup lines. I was productive through most of it, needing to get things done and also because experience had taught me that giving the matter my full attention let to problems. After I’d had my fill, I masturbated, opening the blinds first in case my neighbor or her husband wanted to watch. The wife was a svelte woman with a face that had seen too much sun. In her mid-50s, she usually wore her long corn silk blond hair through the back of an Astros cap when she worked in the yard, the front yard. The back yard received less attention. She was a bit of a lush. I knew because we’d call out to each other when she had the house to herself and sat on the back deck, always intoxicated when she was willing to participate.

“She’s setting up shop as the neighborhood whore,” Beth had claimed.

“I’ve never seen anyone come by.” This wasn’t true. For a few months after we’d moved in, a van sat in the driveway every day to leave around 3:30.

“You don’t know what to look for.”

“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?”

“Only the shadow knows. Don’t get me off track.”

“Which Spinal Tap album did ‘Lick My Love Pump’ appear on?”

“Shut up, Bobby. That woman’s a whore.”

“She’s truly very nice.”

Beth glared at me. “I’m going to shut her down.”

After I finished masturbating, I called in a voice that would have boomed in the back of an auditorium, “Where’s the cunt fucking bottle.”

“Asshole!” a voice laughed.

“Hi, Mrs. Neighbor Lady,” I called back. “I haven’t seen you recently.”

“Do I need to have a talk with your girlfriend?”

“I wouldn’t. She’s trying to shut you down.”

When I saw how little scotch was left, I texted Beth to pick up a bottle on her way home. “1pm,” she answered.

“Omfgidc.”

“Make paella.”

“K”

“<3”

“Something happened today,” Beth said over dinner, “something that’s got me really tense. It makes me want to cry when these women do this Bobby. Carrie came into my office spent twenty minutes complaining about how her daughter’s sexually active with an boy who turns 18 next month. Bobby, when I was her daughter’s age, I was having sex in an alleyway with a man I thought was my boyfriend.”

“You know how I lost my virginity,” I mumbled in a flat voice.

Her eyebrows narrowed. “You tell a different story every time!”

“I snuck out on the baby sitter and came home drunk. She was freaking out, said she’d almost called the cops. I was thirteen and she was sixteen. I lay on the floor at the foot of the sofa where she sat and began to talk about how ugly she was. I don’t remember what I said exactly. ‘You’re so ugly. It’s like your face, like it isn’t even a human face. There are shapes of skin and bone that stand out but like on a doll in a movie that comes alive in your sleep. Your forehead. It stands out so much above your eyes. And your cheeks are so high and puffy and your nose. It’s part of someone else’s face.’ After just a minute or two of it, she pulled my pants off and made me a man.”

Beth shook her head. “I’m not sure you know when you’re lying.”

“You know I’m joking.” I planted my palm in my cheek and watched Beth talk, adrift in the haze of alcohol. She was so pretty, and seemed pleased, becoming more animated as her lips move. Bedazzled and adrift in the sound of her voice, I considered saying something to contribute to the conversation but decided against it. She came even more to life, making cute little gestures, stabbing motions with her fork, beautiful and erotic as she bit a piece of sausage from it. Her brows furrowed.

“Bobby!” she snapped. “You weren’t listening!”

“No, I was. And you’re right. If things were different, they wouldn’t be the same.”

“Prick.” Beth picked up our plates and took them to the sink.

“Mom, can I have another scotch?”

Her hips shifted. “No, Bobby. You just had one.”

“Can you have another scotch?”

“Of course, dear.”

“If you can have another scotch, can I have another scotch?” Beth turned around. “If I have two more scotches, can you have another scotch?”

Beth raised her arm then paused and put her hand to her chin. “Quit being such a slut. Now I want your take on this.”

Puzzled by the gut-wrenching ‘why’ of the moment, I dipped my head and felt a rush of relief that the floor under the table seemed an appealing place to migrate to. I slid down onto it and swung Beth’s chair out, patting the seat.

“This is not the solution to all of my problems,” she said in an irate tone, pulling her boots off.

Two things need to be noted here. Whether you view humans as evidence of a creator or an wildly improbable result of organic chemistry and evolution, you have to concede that the existence of the human being in a miracle. If you are honest with yourself, you will also concede that the experience of being you isn’t adequate justification for this miracle.

Beth slept in the spare bedroom four or five nights of the week. She had a sense of when I didn’t want her to remain in bed after sex and without me saying anything would simply disappear. I would join her later sometimes, in the middle of the night, but not often. That night, I lay awake until I was sure she had drifted off and then slipped into her room and crawled onto her arm and clung to her. I woke alone, spent the day alone, and went to bed alone. I wanted to sleep in Beth’s bed but couldn’t give her the satisfaction of finding me there in the middle of the night. I woke to an empty house. I was on my second cup of coffee when the deadbolt turned. Beth strode in with wet hair, oblivious to everything.

“Are you feeling like your old self?”

She smiled at me. “A bit.”

“You’re pissing me off.”

“How?” She asked, absorbed in sorting through the contents of a cereal box for freeze-dried strawberries.

“Not important. Only, that’s how I knew.”

“Please don’t. I had to jerk off three times to get my heart started this morning.”

“Mmm. You’re playful.” Beth stomped off to change out of her day-old clothes and I turned back to the paper. “‘God made you wrong. You don’t know how to love.’ Sagittarius? No kidding.”

“Asshole!”

I followed her into the bedroom though we didn’t speak as I pulled together clothes for the day, a red lace dress, lavender corset, white garters, and one or two other things. I sat on the edge of the tub and ran the water to shave my legs. I turned to see Beth’s angry face leave the doorway. “I’ll be home for dinner,” she shouted before slamming the front door. Sad, I returned to my legs. I hadn’t shaved in ten days so the process was a chore. I had my back waxed. Everything else from the neck down was done with a razor. An hour and a half later, I emerged from the shower, my blond hair that would have been too long for a woman my age detangled and my back sore. Irritated that there was nothing girly to be done in particular, I took my time dressing and doing makeup and had my bag in hand at the door at about half past three.

I wound up at the wine tasting room a half mile from home. It was a bar. Things were friendly there. Only once had someone made a remark, and he had been shut up promptly by the bartender. I saw a younger man tending bar through the glass doors as I entered. I remembered him but not his name.

“Haven’t see you in a while,” he said, busy staying busy in the empty room.

“I missed you too. And I don’t even know your name.”

“Mike.” He supplied, checking the labels on bottles in the refrigerator at his feet.

“Will you do real limes for me if I order a kamikaze?”

“Double shooter? Of course.”

I didn’t see her come in and I didn’t hear her behind me. I only heard the rustle of fabric on fabric and a gentle brush. I turned to see a smiling Asian woman who, at a blush, struck me as a fallen angel whose nature was unclear. Did she smile like that for everyone? It advertised what every man wanted to be a part of his life as seamlessly as it hid who she was. She spoke to the bartender then turned and took the tips of my fingers that I’d unconsciously raised in her hand. “That’s a beautiful ring.” The words came out slightly out of time with her lips, finishing a bit late as her smile returned.

“It might be paste,” I answered softly. “I’m not sure. It was my grandmother’s.”

“Can I ask your name?” Her smoldering amber eyes assured me that she was foolish enough to allow me to pass for who she thought I was. Then her head bobbed, nodding.

“Nikki.”

“Guang.” Mike deposited her drink wordlessly before her. “You’re right, you know. Nikki.”

I smiled foolishly, taken aback. “No I’m not,” I laughed softly. “Nothing ever is.”

Guang leaned forward far enough that she had to glance up to watch my face. “Yes?”

“Effortless.” The word exploded out of me in another laugh.

She turned to her drink, her face somber and her posture guarded.

“So, can I just start talking then?”

Guang’s lips split into a broad smile. “Yes, please,” she chirped.

I took a sip of my drink and launched into my spiel: “Do you know where Formica comes from? Bear with me. There’s a point here. Formica came straight out of the McDonald’s labs for use in the tabletops at their restaurants. That’s right, Ronald McDonald invented Formica, then he promptly set up The McDonald House as a tax shelter for the patent revenue. Initially plastic surgery was performed there, at cost, to maintain its non-profit status. Then, when Ronald died without an heir, because clowns can’t have children, conservatorship of The McDonald House passed to a board of trustees and it became the charity it is today

“Speaking of which, I bet you didn’t know that corduroy comes from a small goat-like animal of the same name raised in Peru and Northern Chile. Something about the high altitude and mountainous clime is ideal for breeding them.. They breed like cockroaches there, and they need to because you can’t shear a corduroy. You have to skin it. That’s why, in third world countries, you’ll see corduroy pants where the stripes don’t line up because they’re made from scraps. You don’t see them here because they’re dangerous to local citrus crops or something. I’m not sure what.”

Guang smiled at me with sharp teeth. “You know exactly how insulting that is, don’t you?”

I cocked my head and raised my eyebrows, quizzically.

“There’s a school of thought known as narrative psychology,” she began, her index finger and thumb pinched together, trusting in a stabbing motion. “What it tells you is that what someone says doesn’t show you anymore than what they mean to talk about.”

“I just try to be original enough not to use intimacy as an interpersonal marketing tool. We’re the product of the encounter group generation. It grows stale after a while.”

“So you lie. Not at all passé.”

“It’s what I choose to lie about.”

Her smile broadened but wasn’t cheerful. “You behave like a bitch to mock women.”

“No. You’re wrong there. Please don’t leave,” I said, shaking my head. “I just do that, what I just did. The wrong thing. It’s a reflex I have when a situation’s overwhelming. I do the wrong thing to dispel the tension, and ruin everything in the process.” Guang’s game face broke into a chuckle. I nodded. “Interpersonal intimacy.”

“So you want me to leave, then?” Her chin rose and swayed back and forth, shaking out the long black hair behind her jacket. “You can do it again, you know.”

“I’m afraid.” The words were soft. “I’m afraid I’ll do or say the slightest thing the least bit wrong and you’ll effervesce in little bubbles onto the ceiling, spread in an undulating mosaic of colors with makeup names and boil off into a wisp of smoke I breath in that never goes away.” I closed my eyes and Guang’s voice breathed over my thoughts.

“Tell me. The other half. Yes. Her. Me. Guang.” It slid in through, between the murmur of my autonomic functions

I blinked. “Who am I?”

“Mine now.” Her posture, the way she leaned on the bar with her arm, her agape mouth and lolling stare, these were not her own mannerisms but a mocking reflection of how I felt. “Don’t worry so much, pretty Nikki. You should have faith you might be what you know you’re not.”

“A match for you,” I stated dryly.

Gaung shed fifteen years as she seemed to hop upright in her stool, grin as an eager child would, and excitedly giggle, “Yes, for me.”

“A match for you,” I repeated.

She reached out and brushed at something on my cheek that I wasn’t sure was there. “Don’t be silly.” She patted the bottom of my chin and frowned. “I want you to believe everything I’m about to tell you. I don’t want you to take any more or less away from it than is actually there. Nikki? Listen to each sentence to hear the end. What you’re feeling is fatalism. It’s familiar, I know. Too familiar. You’re a fatalist in love. Que sera sera. If whatever will be will be, you can abandon accountability. Don’t worry. The knife edge you balance your mind upon to keep from falling into tractability, to keep from being bound by fate, to eschew permanence, to believe what you want.” Her voice grew throaty. “When you are ready to fall upon it in shame for all you could not have, I will be there to nurse at your heart’s blood and bind you fast with a forever you will finally believe.”

Freed from trance, my lips parted and my mouth dropped. Tears welled in my eyes and I shook my head, but that didn’t seem to indicate refusal because then her eyes broadened and I closed mine.

“I came here for you today. I watch. I watch.” I drifted in black silence, wanting for nothing. “I watch over you. I’m an angel without a soul and you are going to wake up”

Guang was again the woman who entered the bar. Composed, smiling but distant, and without a care in the world but what worried mind which she never shared, as though part of her were standing over a kitchen sink, cinching a belt tight with her teeth and another was plotting world domination and planting perennials. She spoke before I could call her a bitch, which I sorely wanted to do, not to be mean, but simply to point it out. “I was telling the truth, remember? I have an office off Birmingham. Laurel Street. It connects that strip mall with the tire store to the strip mall with the sporting goods store.”

“We have parking.”

“So does rural Oklahoma.”

“Theirs is gravel.”

Guang climbed a bit too quickly out of her stool to seem comfortable. “Turn at tire store. Three buildings on left. Green roofs. I’m in the middle one. East End Therapy. Don’t stare at me like I’m silly. I’m still working on the name. Drop by. There’s no receptionist.”

“I could call?”

She shook her hand negatively over her head. “That’s a dance I’m not going to do with you.” Bag in hand, she paused halfway to the door and lowered her head. “Yes,” she growled, angry, resentful, hungry. “Now let me get to the door without saying anything you think might is funny.” As she closed the door, she pointed up at the clock above the bar and mouthed the word, “Drink.”

Her wide eyes softened when I brought myself to my feet and clipped forward as fast as I dared drunk in pumps. I caught the door and pushed it back in her hand. As I lowered my head to kiss her, her hand rushed up to pull me to her. Silently, we squealed and sighed with our lips and tongues, relief at having our own pleasure accepted, nothing more. Relief and sublime with beauty and pain because it was in no way enough..

“I wanted to make sure.”

“I’ll see you,” she said, unreadable except that she was happy.

“Two days. I don’t want to seem too crazy.”

“Eagerness is a good thing.” The little girl smile returned and she tried to break our embrace. “Oh my God,” she moaned in disbelief as my tongue plunged into her mouth. She cupped my face and pulled away. “Two days.” She pecked me on the lips and walked off muttering, “Sometimes your body tells a lie even when your words do not.”

“You’re speaking out loud, you know!” I called after her.

Guang only shook her head and headed off towards her car.

I slipped back in the bar. “It’s time to get down to drinking, Mike. Tell the band to play the blues.” Home was within walking distance, but not in pumps. I drove. Beth was asleep in “her” bed. I decided not to wake her. There would be time for her tears in the morning. A sleeping girlfriend and a dark home. You can always spot the player in a relationship because he or she goes to bed late. In part, it’s for reprieve, but it’s more to mourn. A dark home, a cup of coffee, lights still on in the other houses. If ever there’s a time for reflection, it’s in a dark house with a woman sleeping in your bed. It’s then that you’re sure everyone in the world is happier than you. And the dice that roll in your mind when you try to imagine just what happens on the other side of those lighted curtains in other windows that never settle, but how beguiling to feel them roll. The literature teaches us that one in twelve people who attempt suicide eventually succeed, so every attempt should be taken seriously. But we’ve all lain in the bathtub, shotgun in mouth, toe on the trigger, with a tear-streaked face, screaming, “Do it, you pussy!” I digress.

Two days later, I approached Guang’s office from the sporting goods store end of Laurel. Most of the parking spaces before the three buildings she’d mentioned were empty and most of the signs adorning the lots held slots to post more businesses. A bell dinged when I opened the door to her office. There was a small receptionist cubby hole but no receptionist. Light poured from beneath one of the two office doors. I opened the door without the light and the same bell dinged.

“Go in,” Guang’s voice called.

A bare mattress lay on the floor, new, covered with pillows without pillowcases. Next to the head on the driver’s side sat a crystal platter inlaid with a silver disc embossed with an image of twining vegatation. A bottle of wine sat atop it with two glasses. Candles laid about the floor and I realized the room was windowless and without a lamp. I lit a few before closing the door, feeling caught in a teenager’s fantasy for screwing his friend’s mother. It seemed right to undress, to avoid the awkward preamble to what she had laid out to be sex. A red light began to blink by the mattress. The phone. I punched it before layout flat on the bed, arms and legs spread wide. Guang’s voice rose from the speaker.

“Let’s play pretend and call them needs. Politics aside, we’ll call them needs for a moment. We all have them. They draw us through life, they’re compulsions that we struggle to obey or deny. Let me tell you a story. A short one. There’s a man I met just this week that I feel compelled to convince of so, so many things. Only I can’t say them because he’ll just think I’m lying. And they are far-fetched, these things.”

“Sell your snake oil, cunt slut.”

“Okay, it’s not the best day. So, you’re intent on traveling backward through time to possess the minds and-or bodies of the various men you’ve mentioned to rape your ex-husband early into puberty. What I’m going to do without any sudden movements, and it I would absolutely love it if you didn’t make any either, is write down the name of a psychiatrist. They can give pills. Better doctors, in a way. Yes, real doctors. So this is for you. Now let me close my computer and gather up Drama Queen and Blinky and you can let yourself out.”

Guang cracked the doorway and hissed, “One second.” She glanced down at my penis and her mouth opened.

“It’s adorable, isn’t it?”

She pulled off her pink silk scarf, wadded it up, and threw it at me. It barely made it to the foot of the bed. “Put a bow on it. Now one second.” Obligingly, I tied a shoelace knot with her scarf and drained one of the two glasses of wine that had already been poured. Warmth and the most beautiful exhaustion overtook me. Life turned into a movie I wasn’t paying attention to because I was too distracted by the darkness. Guang was touching me, teasing me until I became so used to it that it that it was always there. There was something else long ago, but this was reality now. I saw her face in the dark, felt her hair trace over me. Her hands, her lips. Then, and this was very clear, she was astride me, rocking very slowly. Very, very slowing, her face flat and expressionless. And her eyes. Cold, cold eyes that revealed a thought, a truth that wracked me with pain and loss. Her eyes made a statement: I own you. Mouth agape with fear, I watched those eyes for so long until I felt my hot cum bloom around the head of my penis inside her and her face broke into a happy smile. She slept on my shoulder after speaking for a long time about what love meant. The words were so pretty though I didn’t understand them. I woke up shaking like a leaf in the black and alone with tears welling in my eyes and her words in my mind. “There will be tomorrow.” Then there was nothing. I grabbed the pillows in my arm and babbled apologizes. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. Please? I need you so bad. I need you, I need you.”

“Do you need a chicken salad sandwich?” Guang’s voice chirped. I felt her slide behind me, her breasts on my back and her voice in my ear. “I swear to you that I will never forget what just happened. Please don’t be ashamed. It was a gift, Bobby. A beautiful one.”

“Do you love me?” I whined.

Guang answered in slow, even words. “So much I can’t breathe.” She began sucking at my neck, biting it, kissing it while I lay in a state of shock that drifted off into the distance, or perhaps I receded from it. Thoughts began to pull away until only a pinpoint of darkness lay inside me. Then it popped and the world disappeared into a mesh of pain at lies I wanted so much to hear. A voice lulled me awake. I saw Guang in the returned candlelight and without thinking flipped her on her back. Astonishment and euphoria filled me as I watched her head thrash on the pillows until I noticed that she was watching me with burning eyes, nodding. I was flooded with fear, but she was nodding. There was nothing, only a flat sense of being dutiful at the very back of my blank mind and then a sublime understanding that there was nothing to desire but this. A black oblivion of unending need descended as I fell to her breast.

When she urged me to the other, I rose and gulped down the other glass of wine. “I don’t want to go.” I fell back onto the mattress and watched her smile down at me as I fell to oblivion.

The sky was dark when we ventured outdoors again. “A day and a half, I take it.”

Guang laughed. “I need a shower.”

“Did you work today?”

“In the morning. You were hoping for more, I bet.”

“More would be scary.”

“That’s why.”

I spun around and walked backwards ahead of her. “We are in love, right?”

She dipped her head, laughing. “I am. I already was. You want to know what this means, yes?”

“We can’t just let it be?”

She laughed again. “I can.”

My irritation popped. “You want more.”

“Shhh. I don’t want you scaring anyone.”

I grabbed Guang and kissed her before she could open the door to her car.

“Come back when you can. I only work mornings. I write in the afternoon. But by Monday. Please.”

“What do you write?”

“Poems.”

“Can I read one? Do you have one on your phone?”

“They’re in Korean, Bobby.”

“You send them back home?”

“Yes. I’m published.”

The walk from the car to the front door at home was out of a movie, only without my footsteps amplified by foley artists. Everything was crisp, fluid, and very distant. I paused before testing the lock. “Everything, everything,” I muttered to myself and pushed the door open. “Beth!” I called. “Is this one of those days when your mood is unpredictable and entirely false. I find that so charming.”

“I love it when you lie about who you are, baby,” she answered from the kitchen. “Now shut up and get in here.” The TV was playing a video of a man carving at a block of mud covered with ketchup with a table knife. “He’s going for broke. A whole pound of peat.”

“Christ, I would have said, ‘That’s Not Food’ last week when they asked him to lick out the insides of those petri dishes of streptococcus.”

“Everybody likes cash and prizes,” Beth mused, raising a champagne flute to her lips.

“What’s the occasion?”

“It’s gin. I just wanted to try out the glasses. They’re for Shelia’s wedding. Would you like one before finding out this leaves us?”

“I’d love one angel.”

Beth filled another flute from the bottle in the freezer. “One of these days, Bobby,” she said, handing it to me and turning away.

I felt my temper flare. “Coffee and pie.”

“Excuse me?”

“Laurel and Hardy.”

“Easy as cake?”

She had turned away from me and planted one knee on the barstool by the counter. Her butt was thrust out and her spine was curved in an S-shape as she sipped her gin.

“You wouldn’t have to do that if you ever fucking smiled.”

“And if you had an ass like mine, you’d be getting fucked every night. Let’s not quibble. Or do you want me to smile? You’re getting at something.”

“I miss your disaffected youth shtick.”

“Really?”

I shrugged. “No cliché too banal. You wear it well.”

“Some guys have all the luck.”

“Fuck you.”

I kept my promise of returning to Guang that week, showing up two days later to receive a cherry four-poster bed, a small table, a bureau, and two straight-back chairs for our spare room. The deliverymen didn’t react to my white lace dress and black fox stole. I called for vegetable primavera and drew out making the bed, rumpling it to meet my eye for “lived-in.” I stashed a few personal items in one of the bureau drawers and grabbed my bag to get the food, making mental a note to buy plates, something nice to fit in with the rest of it. And silver cutlery. I took a deep breath to quell my panic at my fanciful thinking and rushed out the door.

Her office door was ajar when I returned. Phone in hand, she spun to face me as I slid inside and continued to spin to face me as I sat on the sofa opposite the desk and continued to spin, tossing her feet up next to me. I pulled off one of her turquoise shoes tickled her foot.

“This moment just isn’t the best time,” she said into the phone, eyes narrowed and glaring at me.

I held onto her leg while she struggled playfully but let me keep it. When she tried to suddenly jerk it away, I pulled back too ha rd and her butt slid out of her chair instead. I crawled off the sofa, a wry smile masking my obsequious contrition, and sat beneath her.

Guang straightened her legs and I lay back keep her from hitting the floor as she slid off the chair. She smiled down at me and cupped my face. “It’s a delicate matter as well. Sigmund Freud believed that a purse in a woman’s dream represented her vagina.”

I mouthed the words, “I need you.” She stood. “I don’t understand why it would violate part of who I am if I were not to love you, yet it’s so like the air that I, oh.”

“So her license is her identification, her ID, her identity. And so her identity is what she’s searching for.”

It was a ritual I had performed many times before but not one time that had been real. I received no pleasure, Guang’s reaction was incidental. It was the ritual that mattered.

“Indeed, her identity has been swallowed by her vagina cunt. Her vagina purse.” Her breath caught and she wheezed slightly. “One thing I want you to remember is that the womb is a place for growth, nurturance.”

“My soul,” I moaned, unthinking.

“Yes! That’s what I’ve been trying to say. Your friend is a fucking fucking cunt.” I heard the phone hit the floor. “How much does all this frighten you?” she asked on our bed an hour later.

I shrugged. “It’s what I’ve always wanted, helplessness and safety, being an object of desire enthralled by the woman who desires me. An object in the sense that you’ve let me fall adrift to bob upstream in the frothing torrent of love and pain and need that flows from your heart, and that you watch my course with large, intent eyes. It’s seemed both dark fantasy and fear yet at the moments I know it’s so, there’s bliss and understanding that the world could not be right without it. I’m wondering if that’s true or only what I want.”

She was already upon me, hands holding my face, her tongue deep in my mouth. “It’s fucking true,” she hissed. Glaring down at me with wild eyes and nodding, she pulled my head to her breast and filled me with pain as I began to nurse, everything a too-fast oblivion of need. I could feel her pain, draw it from her. It coursed and prickled through my veins, not shared but shamelessly offered and, with it, her. Enlightenment describes nothing, not one thing in this world. To call anything enlightenment is to profane the word. Anything but this. I felt no shackles of a conjoined spirit, but we understood each other and, with that, clarity — numb to the pain of understanding. “This is right.” The cold breeze of her pleasure. “Peace is so fleeting.” She smiled, lolling her head at my rictus of fear. “You can have me, Bobby. I’ll course through your blood until you scream for escape from what we’ve become, though your only happiness will be found in accepting it, in submitting.” Guang leaned in close and with more sing-song to her voice than usual, said softly, “This is forever.”

“Forever is a world children use.” I tucked my penis back in my panties and pulled my white lace dress down over my knees.

Her eyes blazed with anger but her voice soft. “No, Bobby. It’s not. Offer me something I want and I’ll make you believe.”

“Would you believe if you took it?”

Guang rose to her knees and shook her long raven hair out behind her back, a sneer on her lips and wounded eyes. “Plaything, I know already.”

The world exploded in a white flash and my thoughts ran to gibberish. There was nothing I could say to those eyes, to that word.

“Plaything,” she whined.

My chest heaved, the room taking shape again. I fell forward, prostrate before her, both fists over my heart. “Oh God, I love you.”

Hands were pulling my dress, my panties were being snapped off, and not to long after I heard a voice her voice brushing past my ear. “This is the moment you’ll try to remember for the rest of your life.” I readily welcomed her into me. I held onto the moment as best I could, deep breaths and chest rattling groans, rather than playing the role I so loved playing until it took on a life of its own. I wanted to offer her the truth. My breath caught in my throat and I remembered what the truth was. It was lovable, what she did to me. It was something to be in love with as helplessly as I had ever loved anything. As much as anything ever, this was the truth of who I was, and I could not and did not want anything else because I had surrendered to the truth that I could not be anything else. My love for her eroticized my belonging to her. The words and pleas that rose to my lips, obscene beyond anything I had ever heard, could not have convinced her that I was a helpless victim to the pleasure of her possession of me. She did not have some sort of hold on me and we did not have an unbreakable bond. I dwelled within her soul, inside the soul that had escaped her body to engulf both of us, the soul that I offered my pleasure to the way a penitent would offer the life of his son to a god. My knowledge that I was her possession served as worship to what she meant to me. And she was everything.

The night ended in a bar situated on the rear side of a strip mall that was only a bit wider than my kitchen. I felt out of place in my white lace dress and black fur stole, even after twenty drinks, but Guang was slapping her palm down on the bar hard, lifting her shot glass. I took mine as well and she pulled me off my stool and dragged me to the bathroom, which consisted of a single toilet. Angling around me, she blocked the door, hands outstretched and pressed on either wall. “Lick my pussy, Bobby.”

I woke alone in a dark hotel room, stood and walked to peer out the window at a sky more plentifully strewn with stars than normal and a blanket of snow a month out of season over the ground. I woke and it was day. I fixed my hair and rushed outside to see in the daylight that my car wasn’t in the lot. In the elevator, I noticed it and, feeling myself up, there it was: a bow on my penis, tied in red felt no less and a car run through by it. I shook my head at the madness of it. The room was considerate, at least. My phone read, Nebraska. “I thought I was dead,” I muttered. The card read, “Find me if you can.” Guang had a poetry page indexed by the English end of Google and on the very right of the title bar was a button labeled, “You.” I clicked it and was prompted for a password. Shaking my head, I entered “Yours” and was taken in. One poem after another with a wordy apology at the top for having had only a few hours to write them, and then in English.

You knew what I said was desperate and mad

You knew your responses were lies you believed

Everything you know is wrong. Your hopes hold the truth.

Breathe me in so we can share you together

Let me pour into your blood to taste your desire

Your black need redolent with soft beauty

Love is a cliché atop which the world spins

A word for retarded children that it’s legal to fuck

Always, everything, inexorable, peace.

I will have you because you need to be mine

Truth and beauty, stumbled upon by my pen

I see an axiom that governs God

I’ve seen you writhe in exquisite pain, ravaged by need

You begged for mercy in one word, with my name

We found absolution in each other that night.

You made a lovely addition to my kitchen.

After finding the wrong house, wry fate

Tearfully meets the gaze of mirthless karma.

We knew tea would end with our companionship

More could not be had by the interplay of our desires.

I listened without one playful thought to your soul’s overflow

You anchored your dreams to fears and to needs,

Walking the precipice of love with an easy grace

Amused eyes invited me to your dance

I could not wake from the blur of life to make one second

Not for a boy not yet twenty or a desire that amused me

And now the sun dawning in the blue eyes of a beautiful virgin

“The right girl might be good for you,”

My voice clipped, exacting forthrightness

“I haven’t wanted that” rode out from your mouth

Your fear intoxicated me with vanity

Your wounded eyes made me sing with love

We bite when it’s right to, or are invariably boors

I offered you a soft bass dirge with a piano trill

“I would love to make you feel better. May I?”

It humiliated you to even nod. Youth.

I sipped my tea, unable to escape your eyes

Taut with need, inexorably drawn to mine

A kiss is just a kiss and you whined please as I rose

“Speaking that word in your head

Would dispel our world with its truth

But you cannot hear it because you are distracted by this:

“I want to play with you because you do not count

I don’t expect to dismiss you when you disappoint. And I will.

I will eschew reality itself to reach for what I lose

“I long to love but cannot bear to be given it

Only a foolish slut would want me for sex and then abandon me

You are unique in the world and it renders me irrelevant.

“My lead crystal heart cries outraged pain to a cruel world

I do not care what love is, I do not wonder at its nature

I will teach my heart to sing to stop this need unending”

Do not be angry, plaything.

Consequences still didn’t matter

So then I thrust in the knife

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t let me worship your heart

I can’t ease your suffering without permission

I don’t think of fucking you because I have no right”

“May I enter your lead crystal heart sunk in woe

Can you tell me that word in your head

Or do you fear it will be too pedestrian”

“It takes shape. Let it slip your lips.

Do you know it? Can you hear it within you?

Flat and drab, vulgar. It is everything you feel.”

“Such sweet punishment will pass my lips

“Fuck,” Bobby. “The word is fuck.

It means everything.”

She broke into prose. I had thought it pretty to tell the story in sogi. You deserve even better, dove. You deserve the clarity that I’ve deprived you off with a black fog that steals the truth away and, with it, I suspect the world. The air shown like crystal ringing with moonlight as I took you, which is in every way a better story. And so clarity will have to wait. I stole your wallet so you couldn’t get a flight, but there’s an obscene amount of cash in your purse. Go shopping, if there is shopping. Buy gift carts and overnight pretty things to yourself if not. More waiting for you by noon tomorrow. I my words to be the only familiar thing in your world. Give me the week we deserve. Women but no wine. You should have seen yourself Wednesday night. I cannot expect you to tell every stranger in the establishment every time you perform oral sex on me in the bathroom. I know I simply cannot expect that, but thank you.

Beneath this was a picture. I shook violently. I barely recognized myself in it, and the smile. I’d only seen it on a handful of women and Guang was not among them. Now it was stretched across my face. I was nineteen and my head lay on her shoulder. She looked as she always had, even her hair. Her smile was different.

Heedless of the stubble that crept through my worn makeup, I approached the clerk and booked six more nights. The hotel was a Hilton, but only ran $700 for the week. I replenished my makeup in the mall across the street and bought two a pair of separates and a nice set of boots. After fixing myself up, I walked to the drugstore on the corner to max out four Visa gift cards for two thousand dollars and spent the afternoon shopping online. Panicking with remembrance, I dialed my office.

“Claudie, it’s Bob.”

“How can I help you, Dr. Pearson?”

“Cancel my classes for the week. Put a sign on the door, please. I’ll email the students. I’ll explain to Sandra when I get back. I don’t want to go into details . . . it goes beyond a death in the family.”

“Yes, Dr. Pearson. Are you well?”

I coughed. “Yes. It’s like this. Think ‘abduction’ but without the ransom.”

“What’s her name?” she chuckled.

“I finally see why they put you on our committees.”

“No, I just like to be heard. Find your way home, Dr. Pearson. Soon.”

“Thank you, Claudie. Goodbye.”

I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling for a very long time and then dressed before making my last trip out for the day to buy a laptop so I could work a bit and, in the spirit of being a bitch, two more cards for the purchase of a nice pair of shoes that had to be negotiated with the support team at the Louis Vuitton site. Still a bit under the spell of the Seconal, I fell asleep immediately thereafter.

I had resisted Guang’s website until showering and dressing at half past two. You. Yours.

So intoxicating, sitting on the sofa and at any noise I made, I would see you in the doorway. My smiles faded to concerned eyes that could not read and you would sag and slink away. I would brim with delight to the point of bursting, my mind glazed with stupid joy, remembering the last time you spoke and anxious and then eager to see things through. Horrible wording and I apologize for it. Dove, I wanted to give you what you merely wanted and what I was growing to need.

I stole into the upstairs bed you had made your own to sit in the dressing chair to read to you, heedless of whether it woke you, so you could lie awake in the dark with the sound of my voice. Once we were both comfortable with the ritual, I wrote something. You stirred when I cleared my throat. “Why cry at the stars that they should be mine? Why lament that the ocean would drown me? Surcease from loneliness is such a tired desire, a cliché both pedestrian and foul, beneath the beggars in the streets even. I would not have condescended to be ensnared with it but for you, for you whom I cannot touch, whom I can no longer make out through my mind’s dreams. You, an angel that will not abide within your form, and my love for you a poltergeist that playfully strives to catch the barest glimpse of divine beauty and fails. I would be left to wonder if it is the poltergeist that is beautiful and perfect, yet cannot consider that because it is mine. Can my drab love ignite divine beauty in you? I cannot say this world would make more sense if my love could conjure love for me in you because I do not know I would care.”

I set my phone down and slid into bed with you.”Do you think I’m beautiful?”

“Yes.” Your voice cracked.

“Show me.” When you broke our long embrace, I told you,”I wrote that for you.” You trembled wildly when I took you in my arms again.”This happened when we wake,” my voice hissed in your ear. “Promise me this happened.” I smiled up at you while you struggled with my clothes, knocking your hands away and sliding from beneath you when the frustration appeared to be too much for you. I choked and gurgled words I could not understand as cold, crystal air that rang with moonlight gripped me as I began to take what you had kept so long for me. I would not allow it to numb my feral stare that fixed your gaze as it seemed to hold each pose of passion fixed in stilled time. “Love me, love me.” The words heaved and howled, a gutteral growl.

“Guang! Oh my God, Guang!” you cried, a symphony that toyed with every fucking one of my desires.

I shook my hair out, composed again, and turned your chin to meet my cold, flat, shining eyes and blank face. Your fear told me you understood. And so, slowly, mechanically, I ground your knowledge that I owned you into your body as you nodded, accepting your fear and dark fantasy as truth, sheathed in the cold crystal air that rang with moonlight.

Now let me explain everything. I stood aghast at what I knew. I stood before the vanity mirror in my terrycloth robe and closed my eyes. I felt your arms slide around me and heard magic words in your voice, “This atones for a great deal.”

I exhaled and my breath carried the words, “Love me.”

“Can I confess it?”

“Profess, baby.”

“I think this is heaven,” you answered with closed eyes.

“You love me more than you know. You shake your head, but it’s so. When you see you cannot be you without me, when I retract the knife and you hurt. So much more fun when the knife hurts more as it comes out, and so it is with love.”

“Do you, then? Love me?”

Such a curious thing, the way I doubled over crying, “I hate!” as the walls buckled. But only so curious as it seemed not to have happened. I spun and told you, “I am an object of desire. It is simply not permitted me.” I traipsed past you and your smile. “Thank you, dove. For taking it as a challenge. In the meantime, when I want, I will be what you want. You will control me. It will only feel the reverse is true.”

“Well,” I said, smiling broadly into my closet. It was the oddest thing. The clothes that had been steadily blossoming into your closet now occupied half of mine. My clothes, which had been wearing, were gone. I pulled on a pink T-shirt with the words, “I can really make lasagna” stenciled across my breast that barely covered my sternum and a pair of black capri pants. “You can’t expect me to wear this,” I called to the ceiling.

“Don’t talk to it,” you said in low tones then smiled at me. “Please do.”

“This is not fair, not at all.” I tossed a pair of black wool pants and a black pinstripe shirt with black snaps and French cuffs on the bed. “Your hair’s getting longer.” My voice was cautious.

“I know.”

“What have you been putting in it?”

“I found some gel in the bathroom.”

“I could trim it.”

You made a little noise. “No.”

“Go downstairs, then. I’m washing the sheets.”

“Why?”

I looked. Pink satin, even new pillows. I fell into them, laughing, and hissed when I felt your hands at my waist. “Put on your clothes. I appreciate that you really like sticking your dick in me but, uh, no, never mind. Forget I said anything. Remind me you love me.”

Your face held such longing. “I can’t.”

“What do I mean to you?” You only shook your tortured face. “Thank you. I know.” I pulled your head to the pillow. “Now tell me. You’re safe. I promise.”

I will never forget how you looked me right in the eyes and with a steady voice told me, “You’re everything to me.”

“You like nailing your everything, don’t you? Do you want to fill my womb with your cum? You can if you need to.” You winced and poured into me as I put my hand over your lips and turned my head, laughing. “I meant to say that in Korean. I swear.” I was lying.

Sitting on the sofa once, the clock still comfortably shy of midnight, you announced we must name the miracle that we never spoke of for fear of it being a soap bubble miracle that is easily popped. After a few minutes, your phone chirped “두 사람을위한 세계”

How about, “사랑으로 지어진 집” I said dismissively. “The house that love built,” I replied to your raised eyebrows.

“영원히 모든 것,” you chirped.

“내 죄의 무게” I answered flatly.

“영원히 모든 것?”

I lay down and wrapped my legs around you. “Better.”

“영원한 자정?”

“I like it.”

“영원한 영혼의 자정”

“Too much.”

“영원한 순간”

“If you change your mind tomorrow, we’ll have to do this all over again.” To show you I loved this romantic streak I hadn’t yet even guessed was within you, I unraveled my legs, pulled the cushion from next to the armrest to make sure your mind didn’t plunge into the gutter, dropped it in your lap and plopped my head down upon it. “Bobby, love, could you repeat that yourself. Sweetly.” I gazed up at you with broad smile and eyes that sparkled like yours. Only mine were narrowed, of course. It was only important to me that you loved me and I couldn’t believe being delightful would hurt. “Without playing it again.”

You stammered unintelligibly.

“Oh, say it.”

Again, you stammered.

“We’re not going anywhere.” By the tenth try, your eyes were hazy with dreams. “Do say it. Please?”

“I’ll love you forever.”

“It’s lovely to you to think so, I know. And if I could grant your wish, all your other fantasies would fall in line. But forever is a word that children use. Now say it or I’ll pretend to cry, which I’m quite good at.”

“Everything, could you please retract your claws from my soul?”

“Yes, Bobby.” I closed my eyes and my act drained from me. “Call me exactly that. Do you prefer baby, love, or dove?” You couldn’t hide your smile as your eyes darted away. “Dove. How lovely. But you’re plaything too.” You stood to cut out the light and returned to me, returned my head to your lap and leaned back to comfortably stare down at my smile of wonderment. My skin tingled, ringing with the crystalline air that chilled my warm eyes. I reassured myself that my mind was playing tricks on me and you weren’t really mouthing words you were not ready to say. I slide further up the sofa propped my head up on your arm. “Tell me, dove.”

“I could but then you’d know.”

“And if I want to know.”

“You do, but I don’t want it said. We both know, and we’re both certain because we don’t talk about it. Are there words for the way you play with your hair offsets your sharp eyes? What are the words?”

“Are you sure?” I whimpered, aflush with concern.

You nodded twice and your head dropped.

“No more words.”

“It’s getting late,” you murmured.

“Shhhh.” After a very long time, I asked. “You know, don’t you?”

“I suspected. Will you ever say it?” Your tone was flat, despondent.

“I don’t know.” I straddled your lap and gazed over the back of the sofa, haunted and desperate for you to lose yourself in me. “Dove, I need it. Soon.” Your hands grasped my waist and rocked me against you. Fear and pain poured from my taut tissue and welled in my eyes and throat. “I want it so bad,” I moaned. Your mouth covered mine and reassured me it was all real. A soft glow of warmth filled me that burned brighter and hotter till the crystal fell from the air. I clung to you and felt the void pull away. For the first time in so long, I had enough. I was a newborn girl in your arms, staring at the face of the first man in this world to love me. 그런 다음 당신의 성기는 당신의 영혼을 내 자궁으로 펌핑했습니다. You must have wondered at the why of it, what you find with me. Perhaps you don’t after all. You likely haven’t changed much. But Dove, reading this, you are about to know it’s true that you find something with me that you’ve gone too many long years without and never want to part with again for so much as the briefest moment, though you must at times because it is only when you fuck me that I give you the opportunity to commune with your own soul. So much of you has died within me as you clung to my breast though, truly, it was your own fault, plaything. The fear on your face told me what you never could, that you were about to become even more mine. I smile when I remember all the times your inability to ascribe the word inexorable to the whole ordeal and would lie on my shoulder, babbling pretty apologies while I watched you pull your own cum out. The desperation on your face told me that our moments together would have always ended in such a juvenile way if it weren’t that you knew I wanted otherwise. Your desires, the ones you worried would make me blush, and the ones that did make me blush of course, and all the other emotional needs and whims, fantasies about being yourself, everything you ever wanted that could be gotten from a woman except a child, they were strings on a harp that I learned to play enchanting melodies upon. Not for your pleasure, but my own. I’m a bit suspicious that I’m the only reason you even want to fuck. But metaphysics can wait. Do what you will with the day. I will tell you more of our story tomorrow.

You must have wondered at the why of it, what you find with me. Perhaps you don’t after all. You likely haven’t changed much. But Dove, reading this, you are about to know it’s true that you find something with me that you’ve gone too many long years without and never want to part with again for so much as the briefest moment, though you must at times because it is only when you fuck me that I give you the opportunity to commune with your own soul. So much of you has died within me as you clung to my breast though, truly, it was your own fault, plaything. The fear on your face told me what you never could, that you were about to become even more mine. I smile when I remember all the times your inability to ascribe the word inexorable to the whole ordeal and would lie on my shoulder, babbling pretty apologies while I watched you pull your own cum out. The desperation on your face told me that our moments together would have always ended in such a juvenile way if it weren’t that you knew I wanted otherwise. Your desires, the ones you worried would make me blush, and the ones that did make me blush of course, and all the other emotional needs and whims, fantasies about being yourself, everything you ever wanted that could be gotten from a woman except a child, they were strings on a harp that I learned to play enchanting melodies upon. Not for your pleasure, but my own. I’m a bit suspicious that I’m the only reason you even want to fuck. But metaphysics can wait. Do what you will with the day. I will tell you more of our story tomorrow.

You were a beginning in a world without them. I sat so often at the edge of the bed, talking to you in your sleep, until your eyes opened and a new day dawned with your smile. A half hour at the bedside only to scamper from the room when you woke in increasingly ridiculous clothing — one day, the closet only offered me black pleather. With a riding crop atop a pair of over-the-knee boots on the floor. “Do you honestly like this?”

“Who doesn’t want a Korean dominatrix?”

“Hmm. I think this pink cardigan is cashmere. There’s no justice in this world. Wear it with the tweed.”

“Do you honestly like this?”

“This demon is playing with my daddy issues and I’m not the least bit amused.” I continued to tear through the closet. “What evil fuck decided to start making crotchless fishnet body stockings outside the plus sizes?”

I stared long into space, wondering what madness reality had taken the form of. Every desire, every need was real and new and had always been a part of me. It was as though Guang had laid a hand on my back so gently that I could not at all feel it and had let me to the truth of who I was and what I wanted but, when I turned around and told her of it, she did not or could not hear and I was without the courage to press things and so felt a warm knowledge that I could make her see it as well in time. I showered and put on the silk sheath dress I had overnighted from Saks Fifth Avenue and headed out on the town. I met a new couple instantly, not even a couple, on a first date and my drinks were being bought for me in short order and I watched the man brag about his work in between stepping outside for cigarettes, when I would listen to his date tell me how she wanted nothing to do with him. After he revealed that two of his brothers had passed of sudden infant death syndrome, I wished her fun being raped and left for food. I picked up a man at the hotel bar near midnight and wouldn’t let him make me climax. Hopping off the bed immediately afterward, I assured him he was a good fuck and returned to my room.

My phone was in my hand in the hallway. “Remember.” The world faded to bright pastel streaks of color as I struggled to hold onto awareness. A pop came, a blink of my mind’s eye, and there was only black.

Guang rose from my shoulder, her hand pulling her hand away from an expressionless mouth that I had grown to think considering, I had seen it so often. Her kiss seemed to say, “I’ll believe in you.” I watched her rise and retreat to her bedroom, guilty that I did not want to follow.

“Why is this so strange?”

“It’s become habit, dove. We don’t look at it from without. It is our life now. No more, tonight, please. I’m no good at this right now.”

“You’re everything,” I mused, toying with a strand of hair.

“I know,” she answered in a cracked voice. The latch on her door slid into place.

I rose and walked to her door, afraid to test the lock. “You’re not happy.”

Her voice flowed over me like the tide, high, an exhalation. “I am happy.”

“How can I make you happier?” I asked the door.

“I want to talk about what we do not talk about.”

I opened the door and instinctively flipped on the light. In the large mirror that served as her headboard, I saw myself in a burgundy and black cosplay Lolita dress. The petticoat had become entangled with my garter belt.

“Leave the light on. It will be more intense, much more fun. Now, come, lie in the other pillow.” Her hand cupped the back of my head and moved us to eye level. “Bobby, when, if ever, do you notice your soul within you?”

“It isn’t within me any longer. I can commune with it when we fuck, but that’s all.”

“How do feel about being my possession?”

“The idea frightens and feels like something I can’t have.”

Guang smiled demurely, mouthing words, locked my gaze with eyes that grew wide that I lost myself within, asked, “How do you feel about being my possession?”

“It’s perfect and as it should be, but the truth of it horrifies me.”

“What do you desire most?”

“Does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

“My desires exist for you, for you to grant or toy with or be pleased by or manipulate me with or deny. You’re the only reason I even want to fuck at all. I want to be your angel, fallen from grace, that you will not let slip the tether of your need. I want to be everything to you.”

“It hurts me when you lie.”

“How do I make myself yours alone?”

“How do you make yourself mine alone?”

I shook like a leaf. “Please. Please. Please.”

One word answered me, a gift, a gift that fell like a piece of magic from Guang’s lips. “Baby.”

Hunger eventually drove us from bed the next morning.

The closet had laid out a stocking-thin black silk robe with sleeves a foot longer than my arms that trailed four feet behind me on the floor. “Take care if that. I think it’s sable,” Guang said, fingering the fur along the fringe.

“Can we turn the heat up a bit?”

Guang shook her head, lacing her wool-lined camel hair shrug over her white body stocking. “You know, this is not the worst so far. I wouldn’t have thought it could have been made to work.” She reached for her suede leggings. “Be a good girl and start a pot of water.”

“Yes, mommy,” I chirped as though I had called her that and hurried away. I thump turned me around. I turned to see the leggings on the floor, fallen out of Guang’s hand. Her mouth closed and opened again then she turned to me with amused, glowing eyes. “I realized I forgot something at the store,” she laughed.

“We’ll make an offering to the refrigerator demon and it will provide.”

“Baby, I don’t want to think of them as demons anymore.”

“Ghosts?”

“No, baby. Karma. All of it. Our karma will provide. And, baby?” She stepped out of her leggings and crossed the room to me, legs compact in black patterned fishnet with pink flags and stitched in pearls fleshing out enormous roses. She rose to her tip toes and dropped then eyed me quizzically.

I drew her into my robe and kissed her deeply. “Mommy?”

“Yes, baby. I know. It’s so we accept it, until we understand it. I’ll raise you how I see fit, but I don’t need you calling me mommy as I do it. And please don’t fret. I promise very much that, when you understand what you are, you’ll be quite happy.”

“What am I, Mommy?”

“My slut,” Guang spat. “Oh, that came out just about right. But you’re other things as well, you know.”

“Like the love of your life?”

She blinked and then with downcast eyes, repeated slowly, “Yes, the love of my life.”

I turned away.

“You know I hate myself right now. Bobby, I just never even fucking considered.”

“What, Mommy?”

“That he hadn’t come and gone.”

“Then you know?”

“I don’t care.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“Yes,” Guang screamed and I turned towards her again. “Yes, Bobby! Yes! Every night I fall asleep with a sad sigh that you won’t be there when I wake. And every night I dream about you and every time I wake, I watch your face, marveling at how much I love you. And you don’t see it because I want to protect you. From it, from me. I don’t want you to know that I’ve already lost you only you haven’t decided to leave. This drivel! God, this fucking drivel! Bobby! Make it only you.”

I swooped in to catch her before she could sink to the bed she retreated towards. “I am only me.”

“And you’re enough. Stop it, Bobby. You’re enough.”

I was determined to raise you right and you resisted at every turn. I sat, reading a copy of the ludicrous newspaper that would appear on our coffee table every so often. Someone had devised a gumdrop that did not melt in the sun and had announced breaking ground on a community of candy houses. A certain brand of malt liquor had been empirically demonstrated to increase penis size. “Here’s something interesting,” I chuckled. “Men who dress in women’s clothing do so in order to fill their mother’s wish that she have one gay son in a paradoxical effort to seduce her, studies report. They invariably strive to find more mature women whom they put into mommy-role to sodomize them in order to become content that it’s truly who they are. This is supported by the specific wish to become a slave to their mother’s will and not to supplant their own fathers but rather to be taken away from them out of a desire to become as important to their mothers as their mothers are to them. Reuters.”

“I love the feeling that I’m playing a game without knowing the rules or, moreover, the purpose to it,” you answered from across the room, adroitly spinning on your heels without shifting the books atop your head.

“I hate you, slut. Etiquette next.”

“When are you going to capitalize on the whole me being a slut thing.”

“Midnight. I’ll dress you as a man one time in three. You can dress me the other two days. Carte blanche.” I reclined on the sofa, one pleather knee up then smacked the table hard with my riding crop. You had to keep your books from sliding off. “Focus.” I smiled. You made me go nude the next day. I was worldly enough to know that table manners consist solely of conveying that the way you are eating is the correct way to eat, but I wanted you to at least know what to do with your napkin, that only lipstick was to be touched up outside the bathroom, and how to cross your legs in a low seat.

“What do you think about the neighborhood of gumdrop houses?” I asked over dinner.

“Finally I can truly have what I’ve wanted most.”

I did my best to blink harshly. It was obvious to you that our days apart troubled me more than you. One evening, as you took the sofa laying across from me, shifting, trying not to pose in a dress I would have sucked dick for, I tapped my nail on my laptop. I had begun writing poetry again but couldn’t focus, remembering what the clothes demon had left in the dresser. The second hand ticked. Twelve minutes till midnight “Upstairs. Now. I want you.”

“Really, Mommy?” You blurted, sitting bolt upright.

I shuddered inside. “Really, dove.”

At some point, I’ll have to ask you what you’ve been up to the past few years. I simply don’t know. As you might guess, my perspective is different. Things ended rather abruptly at midnight. I woke in the morning and found your body gone and set about finding you right after shampooing my own fucking brains out of the carpet. Such a cliché, however well it suited us.