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181 Words
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As Douglas responds to my directing hand, I note the precision, the willingness, the abject obedience. Instilled within is the mental concession that whoever holds the ends of his nostril tubing, his leash, holds all the power. The slightest tug of my hand feels as if I am maneuvering a portion of his brain and in a way I am. There it is not only the discomfort, there is the sense that I have reached well within his being and can manipulate, that my feminine guidance is unfettered. So round and round my apartment I walk, he crawls while I attempt to quell the many twinges in my loins, the fire of my non-vanilla side stoked, smoldering and threatening outright conflagration.
“Your captors were kind in exercising you like this, Douglas,” I contend in prompting memories.
But my declamation also prompts my memories, of the lengthy interview days before when Douglas, in my office standing naked, feet parted, hands placed so obeisantly on the back of his head, finally told his story, that slurring, lisping, halting flow of words in which he divulged all.
- Writer
