I often find myself caught in a cycle of guilt and pleasure, my emotions tangled in a web of my master’s whims. It’s a delicate balance, one that I’ve grown accustomed to over the years. My master’s affection can be overwhelming, a crushing weight that presses down on me, making it hard to breathe. And yet, I crave it, this suffocating attention, like a moth to a flame. I know it’s wrong, that I should be repulsed by the way he touches me, the way he looks at me, but I’m drawn to it, helplessly, like a slave to a master.
It’s not just the physical touch that gets to me, it’s the way he talks to me, the way he looks at me with such intensity, as if I’m the only person in the world. It’s a look that makes my heart skip a beat, that makes me feel like I’m the only one who truly understands him. And when he’s done with me, when he’s finished with his games, I’m left feeling empty, hollow, like a shell of my former self. But even that, the emptiness, the feeling of being used, it’s a part of the cycle, a part of the dance we do, my master and I.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m just a fool, a silly little maid who’s lost her way, who’s lost herself in the labyrinth of my master’s desires. But then, he looks at me, really looks at me, and I see something there, a glimmer of recognition, a spark of connection. And in that moment, I know that I’m not alone, that I’m a part of something bigger than myself, something that transcends the boundaries of master and servant. It’s a fleeting moment, one that I cling to, a lifeline in the dark, endless sea of my existence.
>Soulkyn