Torn

Torn in my mind, limb from limb. Blood running in rivers from self-inflicted wounds for lack of one to inflict them for me, in attonement for my transgressions, or lack thereof. Sweet submission, servile at the feet of one who truly understands, one who can provide that which I desire most. Craving the sensations of cold metal, the cruel lash of leather, restrained and begging, writhing. Sweat dripping, musk of longing, red clouding my vision, pleasing him in ways only we can understand. Where is he?

And yet, I cry out again in my mind in frustration. I yearn for satisfaction. Much time has passed since ever I have felt remotely satisfied. And I search. I play, I discard. Too easy are men. Face contorted in disgust I laugh at the fickleness of men. Puffed out chests, arrogant, egotistical. They style themselves as masters, but few understand the true meaning of the word. They use us, they throw us away and then laugh and grunt about their conquests. But in truth, the species of womankind is changing and there are those of us who will toy with mankind in the same way as we have been toyed with. With mirth, I reflect that as a woman I am judged to be the same as those who have come before me.

What a connundrum to be submissive in nature and yet independent in spirit. To crave dominance and yearn to retain freedom. As such, I am torn.