I never wanted to be controlled. I never wanted a Mistress. Sure, I had fantasized about it on many occasions in the past, but fantasy is the keyword here. My thoughts of blissful submission to the will of another were never meant to be more than figments of an alternate self, a conscious way of dealing with all the pressure and misery of a boring existence, a fleeting dimension of solace. I’m sure I’m not alone when it comes to such needs. If you’re reading this, we may have a lot in common in the end.
I wish I could tell you with pinpoint accuracy the moment the lines between fancy and reality began to blur, but I can’t. Specific dates are buried underneath a mountain of contradictory feelings and I fear that digging them out would require far more mental strength than the one I still have left. In the absence of a determined temporal axis, I shall focus myself on the weight of certain memories, for they’re the ones that really matter, the ones that have voices and yearnings of their own, and that are constantly whispering in my ears to drop down to my knees when all I’m trying to do is sit still and write.
So, what do I remember that’s worth putting down into words? Not much, really: a candle-lit room filled with exotic scents… a pair of gorgeous, blue eyes twinkling before me… spirals of hazy red and green smoke in a never-ending cycle of contractions and expansions that had my heart racing and my mind slowing down… and of course, those three words were spoken with such strength and conviction that I found myself believing them on the spot:
You will obey!
I did. Of that, I’m sure. I knelt in that strange room before that alluring woman, an embodiment of Power like I never deemed possible. I licked her varnished shoes and got leashed around. I tasted her nectar and begged for more, utterly convinced that I had no other purpose than to serve.
Sooner than anticipated, I realized I was back at my house, inside my bed. I would have persuaded myself that I had dreamt the whole thing if it weren’t for the traces of her perfume exuding from my clothes, the bittersweet taste on my lips, and the marks of her black fingernails traced on my chest and back. Fully aware of my return to the depths of loneliness, I cried like a child.
I never wanted to be controlled. I never wanted a Mistress. The two sides of my persona were never meant to share the same dimension, let alone engage in a fierce battle for my sanity and happiness. Many moons have passed, yet the conflict rages on and the outcome of it all is still uncertain. On one hand, I just want to let everything go into desire’s oblivion; on the other, I long to be crushed under her heel again, as my spirit is wiped clean and reprogrammed by her will, whoever she is. What will happen to me? I don’t know.
Either way, I’m doomed.