Not yet he said as he casually thumbed through a travel magazine he picked up at the dentist's office.
He needed time to consider the color of socks he would wear tomorrow.
Not
yet she said, as she highlighted another passage in her self help book
with the frayed edges and torn cover. She wondered how she could find
the help she needed to heal.
Not
yet he said when he forgot to call because he was at the carnival and a
clown had his phone. I had a great time at the circus he said, you should
have been there.
Not yet she said as she
sat starting at a Thank You note yet to be written, tears held at bay.
The gift wasn't what she wanted, but the knitted cat sweater was lovely.
Not yet
he said with a small smile, and promise in his eyes. He believed she
would wait until the rain came again and hope bloomed like wildflowers.
Not
yet she whispered as she fell asleep with her knees pulled up into her
chest, hugging them tightly. She had grown comfortable with being alone,
though she still wished for loving arms around her.
Not
yet he said, it will all become clear sooner than you think. It had only
been a minute in his opinion, though the calendar showed months had
passed.
Not yet she said as she stopped reaching and stood still. She was tired, and looked forward to an afternoon nap.
Not
yet he said as he waved from the ferry leaving the dock.
Not yet she
yelled, as a two-bit thief tore her heart from her hands and threw it in
the trash after clearing out the memories hidden in the side pocket. She retrieved her heart from the trash and walked back to the train station.
Not yet she said after she found her courage in a box on the top shelf of her closet.
Not yet he said, she didn't hear him.
Ah! Such a dangerous beauty My Muse, My Mistress!
As she approaches me, her stride speaks of a boldness born from experience. She cannot be denied, she binds me to her will.
Each swell and arch of her body a narration of passion and desire wrapped in a crimson dress. Every dangerous curve a story of dominance created to demand obedience at any cost.
Her raven black hair softly
frames her face and falls over her shoulders in waves of submission. It
curls around her breasts with lustful abandon, cupping each curve and caressing her back with a sensual touch, promising merciful
surrender.
Her smoldering eyes draw me into her spell with a glance. She sees into my soul, expressing my deepest desires with just a fleeting look. As her eyes pierce through my self-restraint, all is lost.
She pulls me into her arms, her perfume wafting around me like tendrils of mist. As she whispers of forbidden desires, I become weak with yearning, besotted with lust.
She leads me away, a willing partner in her depravity. I submit to her demands, transcribing the truths only she can engrave on my soul. Her iron will permeates each rise and fall of her chest, determined and strong as I compose sonnets to her beauty.
I hear her calling, the siren song of promise and conquest. Again and again I turn away from her embrace, reaching for freedom; a long lost choice. I try to deny my own nature, running from her, my destiny. Then she calls, I answer.
I am not worthy of her love, of her approval. I am not worthy of her desire. I cannot deny her - she takes my breath away leaving me helpless in her presence. Undeniable in her treacherous beauty, she fuels my passion for her approval.
I try to resist her indisputable temptation. I try to ignore her heady perfume. She brings me closer and closer - calling, calling me.
We embrace, we dance, we dive into the depths of depravity; releasing a vision of inspiration, love lost, love consumed.
I immerse myself in forgetfulness with the hope of returning to a time when I wasn't enslaved by her spell. She
brushes away my tears and holds me close until the fear has passed.
She is my only vision - such a vision she is! Dangerous beauty with an iron will. I cannot escape who I am, who I will become.
She is my calling - she is my Muse, My Mistress.
Our eyes meet, our souls touch and my heart flutters with joy. She weaves me into her web, binding me to her will. She whispers urgently, building the rapture with each breath. I am enthralled; I am at her whim.
My Muse, My Mistress - I yearn to be in your loving embrace!
We join together in creative worship, gazing into each others eyes as we mount each summit. She seduces me at each turn of the page, keeping me under her spell. Giving and taking, she guides my hand with grace and purpose. She brings me so close, then subsides.
Her desire ignites an unbridled passion; creating fantasy with prose. Her iron will keeps me enslaved; only seeing her beauty as I write each line.
She shows me the many ways to please her, keeping our story going until dawn. Our intercourse crescendos in the final chapter, bringing a satisfied culmination of our mutual affection. I fall back, drained of energy, besotted with our tryst. We lay together in shared satisfaction; exploring the artistry we have created.
She smiles, she sighs - until next time my love, until next time.
Copyright © 2015, Sandra J Oliver. All rights reserved
You come into my life with a whispered promise, sweeping me off my feet. Your perfume overwhelms me, your desire buries me deeply in your spell. At first I am unsure; would you stay true, could we make beautiful art together? You tempt and please, you cajole and tease. I fall for you as if we are to be together forever.
You are a harsh mistress; my muse. You demand so much when we are together, and leave me alone with no warning. Just as I give you my soul, you turn your back and walk away.
I cry! I weep! What have I done that you leave me desolate? Without you I am nothing, I cannot write, I cannot breathe. You are my inspiration, you are my motivation. Without you, I am just an empty shell barren of inspiration.
Sometimes days stretch into weeks without a word. I am heart broken at your betrayal. What can I do to entice you back? I promise to listen better, I subjugate myself to your will.
My life is to please you, only you make me complete.
Just when I feel that you have left me forever; you touch my cheek, you stroke my hair. You demand my complete submission; the punishment for less, too much to bear.
Copyright © 2015, Sandra J Oliver. All rights reserved
She came into my life with a glance, a whisper and a red dress.
We met years ago at a party, she was standing in a crowd with a glass of wine in her hand. Looking so elegant, calm - strangely dangerous...
Our eyes met as I drifted in her direction, drawn in by her beauty and mysterious demeanor. We exchanged a cordial greeting, I reached out to touch her hand. We talked long into the night about everything - and nothing at all.
She told me of adventures we could discover, beauty we could create. I believed; I had found my muse. Promises were made, dreams were created. I dove into my writing with a compulsion and desire unbridled by fear, reflecting my life's story for all to see.
We bonded, we created, we wrote into the night. The adventures we shared, the broken dreams we brought to light. We drank our desire, reeling from the perfume of success.
Alas, My muse, she is a harsh mistress, she demands attention
with a iron will that cannot be denied. If I refuse her company, she
whispers to me, calling me until I respond.
My muse, my mistress calls to me with the siren song of promise, pulls me into her web of desire. I
inhale her sweet perfume as we greet each other, diving down into the
depths of lost love, unbidden desire and broken dreams. She holds me
under, drowning with wave upon wave of written reflection. When I
break free, the loss is too great to bear, even if the creation is
finished.
She is a fickle one; my muse, my mistress.
When she grips my soul and renders me helpless, I can only surrender to her wishes and bow my head in submission to her whim. She sometimes grabs me by the hair and drags me away to create that sorcery only she can entice from me.
When she is gone, the emptiness consumes me and I wish for her harsh demands.
At times she is like a ghost, I cannot touch her at all. I am desolate and alone, without direction or cause. I wail and weep, I hold my breath with anticipation of her return. I cannot think, I cannot write - I cannot create the beauty she brings.
OH! My muse, my Mistress! What have I done that you deny me? I would suffer any injustice to endure your company - just another moment, just another rumination written down. I
would willingly sell my soul to bid your return.
Then - AH! She drifts back into the room, as if she never left; and whispers of the newest adventure we must create.
Copyright © 2015, Sandra J Oliver. All rights reserved
