Master Thirty: Slave Lynn Marie

Master - Thirty

Author: Slave Lynn Marie ©

Six-thirty quickly approaches. The magic moment, hour-halved, drives
slave to action like a pony parade. The ticking of the clock flogs her
into motion. she must work fast. she frets. she worries. Time passes
in a flurry and hours seem like seconds. Butterflies don't only live in
the garden.

Butterflies and almost MASTER-thirty.

Bathe, smooth, pluck, shave, soften, and dress; be absolutely ready for
HIM. slave checks, rechecks and then rechecks, wanting to be perfect.
she checks again and the mirror seems like a master but slave knows her
MASTER, only, owns the mirror where she sees her soul.

Butterflies and almost MASTER-thirty.

Small sounds become the car in the driveway. The damned old house
taunts her with creaks and moans. slave drops to her knees with every
false alarm. The wind arrives and the noise whips her into motion
better than the finest dressage.

Butterflies and almost MASTER-thirty.

Shush, quite, that may be HIM. slave quickly and quietly goes to her
knees. With head held high, eyes respectfully downcast, body straight
and proud, slave squares her shoulders and rests her upturned, open
palms upon her thighs. she hopes and craves for HIS approval. she
hears footsteps. slave feels the footsteps. They echo within her.

Butterflies and almost MASTER-thirty.

Oh, Oh, the footsteps become louder. They get closer. The door opens.
MASTER says: "Hello slave. you are lovely."
HE bends down and touches the nose of HIS slave and her butterflies are
set free.

It is MASTER-thirty.

This poem was published in the "Society Of Janus' Growing Pains" monthly newsletter. to email the auther click here: lynn marie