2016-07-29 I Am Yours, My Lord

by Matt Triewly

I am not sure who I am. A dream or a fantasy in another's mind - a male mind? I am nothing and then I exist. Oblivion interrupted.

But when I am, I exist fully. Completely. Intensely. Passionately. Agonisingly. Ecstatically. And I am grateful for that, immensely so, to Him. And I know it is a him.

I wonder if I was someone else once. Perhaps I still am I in another incarnation. A distillation. Odd. Strange. Weird.

He makes me alive. He makes me see - vividly. In technicolour. He makes me feel - like a powerful current surging through cables. He has created me imperfectly, and yet the flawed is also perfect, and that perfection to Him is stagnation, that beauty is beyond capture, beyond definition, belongs to no one, and to everyone - a myriad of suns in a myriad of minds, reflections of reflections of reflections...

I open my eyes; He opens my eyes - I had not realised that they were closed.

I am lying on my bed and on my back staring at the plain white plaster of the ceiling. The plaster is as white as snow, as pure as snow.

And then I focus more, there are small flaws, little specks of dirt, irregularities, tiny indentations. And I know that He has formed them as I looked - He does not disappoint, will not be deceived.

I wonder if He sees what I see. I wonder if He is jealous of me, He my creator, my god, my jealous god - my vicarious god?

I fear that He will bore of me and that I will become nothing - a forgotten nothing.

I know that I must dance to His music, sing His song, act in His play...

But I must do more than that. I must surprise and stimulate Him; excite Him; arouse Him; challenge Him; make Him forget who He is; lose himself in being me, for is it not the ultimate desire of a god to be mortal, to deny themselves their divinity, their power, their fate... which is no fate.

Maybe I flatter myself. Maybe I delude myself.

I know my name now. Helen. Have I always know my name?

I throw off the covers and swing my legs onto the floor, the solid floor. The carpet is soft, yet firm. It is real, so real.

It is bright in the bedroom. Daylight. Morning. The sun is shining through the curtains - my room is obviously facing north and I remember that it overlooks the esplanade, the green and the beach.

I pull the curtains across - I need to confirm what I knew, what He knew, what He created, what He conjured...

The view is exactly as I expected yet I marvel at the complexity of it all: Shadows. Shades. Ripples. Movement. And all natural.

For a moment I am mesmerised and then I remember my nakedness. I hope no one has seen me for I must maintain an image of dignity and respectability for my neighbours. And yet I live a double-life, a secret life. Oh, the hypocrisy of it, the religious hypocrisy of it. I laugh and He laughs too.

I place the palm of my right hand on the sill, run it along the smooth white plastic, and deceive myself that it is real... authentic...

I turn and pad silently to the dressing table mirror - I need to see myself, need to see myself as He sees me, as He created me, styled me.

For a second I panic, perhaps he has cursed me with ugliness, for He would do that, twisted and spiteful as only He can be.

I close my eyes and place my bum on the stool, and then with what passes for courage I allow my eyelids to rise...

I am not ugly. Of course it is a game He is playing with me ,always a 'game' with Him.

I am young - early twenties - and female of course. My face is oval and my features are even. My lips are sensual, my nose straight and my eyes blue-green.

I stare hard into the reflection of my eyes in the vain hope that I will see through the illusion, the construction, but I only see what He permits me to see - my existence is on a need-to-know basis.

Long raven hair, slightly curly, tumbles onto my ivory shoulders. I can see that I am pretty but not beautiful; attractive enough.

I move back a little.

My breasts are a little on the small side - they are not as large as I would like.

It occurs to me to buy a padded bra, but then I decide not to - he seeks to make me modest. Or maybe he wants to make me brazen in spite of them.

My nipples are dark and prominent and I suspect extremely sensitive...

I have a slim figure and my flesh is pale. My bare arms, though slender and toned, are more than amply spotted with small black moles - imperfection.

He plays with me and will make me a 'slut', if I'm not already one, yet also gives me feelings of inferiority - He dares me to live in spite of it. It is His will to experience the whole spectrum of the emotions - life.

And when I have, when I am done?

I see my death, He will make me wish to die, to kill myself, to create an aesthetic of my death, the final 'orgasm' to trump all orgasms - delicious. Oh yes, I see it now, and I worship Him for it.

I throw my naked body on the floor and surrender to His will...

"I am YOURS my lord..."

TO BE CONTINUED

Rate this submission

Plot:
Dialogue:
Characters:
Wording:

You must be logged in to rate submissions