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The Weekend


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Exhaustion still heavy in the breaking winter morning

Into the mirror I stare…Trying to fathom what has been made of me.


Delivered after work on a Friday afternoon, my mistress driving me into the city,

“Country Mouse must learn it’s place”

To deposit me nude and caged in a small apartment with a mattress on the floor

And a radio playing soft in the doldrums of the late afternoon…

Nothing else…no one there…nothing but us to fill the space.

I am bound upon the naked bed, gagged and *** as she applies the make up to my face.

“This is how he wants you.” My mistress explains. “ Here alone, and waiting for him.”

She says that she does not know what will become of me…

Says that it does not matter…that she does not care.

“ You are just a slave.” She says, “ That dreams of being something else…

Cinderella beyond the ball…but this is not the way of things Country Mouse…

This is the ball that never ends…the perpetual moment which hovers just before midnight

There is no final transformation…you always leave exactly how you are. 

As you have been…will always be…and now I leave you.”

So I am left, and left alone, frightened in the falling light

The radio which plays a soft oldies station 

And the unfamiliar traffic on unfamiliar streets, my only company.

A whole world passing by in the gathering of the night

And tied and dolled I am alone and locked away from it…

Somehow I must have slept, because I come awake to his hands upon me

Before I realize that I do not know his hands

And in the dark they might be anyone’s, for there is no voice to match the touch

The sound of breathing swirling with the hits of the early sixties

As my body is lifted and moved by a stranger through the dark.

Repositioned, and I am un-gagged, but no time for breath or for the question

As a cock brushes my dry lips and without needing to be told I open wide

Let it grow upon my tongue, swell within my mouth to fill it…

Do I know him by his taste? By the way he grunts above me 

as his prick bruises the back of my throat?

I think I do…until there are other hands upon my hips.

Until my cheeks are being spread apart…someone spits upon my ass.

I know what is coming…but I do not know who it is.

I know nothing…and all is lost.

Time fractures in flesh and fleeting conscious.

In the dark I am separate from my body, have been deprived of agency

By the firm hands of those who take possession

By the cocks that thrust and quiver and *** and gag

That bleach the make up from my face unseen

There is no I and the night does not end.

There are only hands and cocks, and half heard whispers

Yielding to other hands and other cocks and other whispers unintelligible in the dark beyond.

There is only the blindfold that masks the daylight.

There is only the growing puddle that lies thick upon the mattress 

And  the body that exists upon it…

There is only the exhaustion, the dull ache of a cock still hungry in it’s cage

Leaking *** in it’s defilement

Only *** which turns to ragged delight

And from delight into the gripping ***

Until even the *** shifts to something else…to understanding

To submission, for there is nothing else.

My mistress finds me there where she has left me.

She runs her hand across my burning forehead, 

My skin befouling her hand.

“ Just a slave, little country mouse…just a slave and nothing more.

The ball doesn't end…there is nothing beyond this.

This is you.”


And now I stare into the mirror


And recognize myself for the very first time.

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