Any day now
The tighter I bind her to me, the closer she is to her freedom… With every knot and every touch, she is released.
Contempt of Beauty
She sits behind the wheel. Her arrogance is cosmetically painted on her face as she looks into the mirror on her sun visor. I see her, and I hate that the words springing forth from my lips are contemptuous. But I speak them without shame. Hello, whore. Do you know for whom you whore yourself? Her empty glance seems to hear my thoughts, but only does her despicable vanity stare back. The whore seeks her opportunity. The light changes and she is gone amongst the parade of slags.
Her figure is a perfect curve from breast to toe; every one of her features extols the erotic lightning striking forth from her very soul. She walks as an object. She knows her purpose. She accepts herself as a creature built for pleasure, for reproduction, for Him. When subject to ridicule, her sex becomes wet. Her pleasure mounts from the privilege to obey. Bound in her vestments—heels high, hobbles tight, sheer hosiery clinging to her supple thighs—she is dressed for her Owner. She, too, a whore. But a whore who no longer seeks for herself.
Beauty as external reflection lies and separates. Beauty as truth deceives not.
