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  • Duchess-Simone

Prisoner of The Mind Pt. 2


7:00 AM finally rolls around and to no surprise, my body hasn’t moved an inch—of course that’s if we’re not counting my nimble digits who’ve proven to be their own entity. And at no point would your majesty be interested in giving him or his beloved member a break. Every so often (regardless if someone is or isn’t watching), my nimble digits casually saunter across his torso to administer blows below the belt that aren’t the least bit offensive. To his chagrin, only when his back’s down is when he backs down. He can’t resist the way I put him to sleep. And so still, he lays radiating in the sherbet glow from the sunrise that now permeates the entire room. He, too, was my sun as he filled me with his ominous glow.


Rejecting peace, my ego low key hoped that he would have been running late for a meeting way over on the westside just so that he’d awaken in a haste, spark up, pour some orange juice, put me in an Uber, and be about his business. But that did not happen, and worst of all, I really didn’t mind.


Together we laid, my mind’s eye opened. He stirred, often mumbling phrases that could be defined as incoherent sleep jargon, or a projection of dreams. I couldn't differentiate, and I didn’t bother waking him to find out, either. I had front row seats to watch my latest inspiration just BE, and no amount of anxiety was bound to obstruct my view. I just love waking up to him in the morning. From seeing the rise and fall of his chest, to the way he involuntary flinches during REM sleep. I'm weak for the way he pulls me tighter by the waist and tucks his hand in the crease of my thighs. Just crazy about the way he adamantly indicates when cuddle hour is over by having to turn his back to me. He said even the space I give is A1. I love his subtle gestures like when he uses his fingertips to lightly trace his initials in between my back dimples. He's ready then. I’m fluent in his body language. He knows how, where, and when to reach me.


But damn, why can't I ever be satisfied?

Is this not what I asked for?

No strings attached, only hit me when you’re mad for it?


Staring at the ceiling, I realized I'm lingering like I’m never coming back. Maybe I'm not. Do I even want to? Experiencing this perfection might be too hurtful in the long run. Something like this I'll want again and again, and again... Cue the water works but don't fall.


Please, for the sake of your image and sanity you can't fall.


I identify and share a similar sentiment with my tears. This is what I wanted to avoid. This moment was bittersweet; the bitter dominant. The weight of my want to leave did not exceed the weight of my want to see how he felt when I didn’t jump to flea before the sun came up.


I never considered how that made him feel before so why's now any different?

Well, it's just... I really wanted this one to be different.

Different than what? Different than whom? Different how?


He's a completely different person than the man from yesterday. Thus, the change had to come from within. But who did I think I had to be in order to fully enjoy him? Why would I be under the impression that I had to be any more or less than my usual, Purple, salacious self with him? I let that marinate for a bit, staring off into space. The journeying mind was disrupted by the sound of the airy duvet shuffling. He thrashed his body about, settling into the right place, ejecting his left leg for ventilation. The image before me matched his temperature.


Early in our affairs, reading him wasn't easy, but fun. I fancied his unpredictability. He had a way about conveying that he was grounded, but was always unclear on where he stood to perceive me. His ambiguity manipulated my lust for travel. My inner centaur was a slut for wanderlust, and his mannerisms provoked my imagination. He wasn’t a man of many words, though he always spoke his mind. He never said he loved me, though he displayed his affection behind closed doors rather fluidly, never publicly. He was limitless. The perfect combination of brazen and tenderness.


Maybe he serves as the rich and delightful pancake breakfast I have zero business in having. But what was that to say about the rest I imagined?


To be continued..