Naughty Sonnet

Hate is much a relationship as love is, I think, Dee had said. I had to think about it, and her additional musing. Surely it added spark and interest to a man's world, and of course, he would emerge the victor in the whole exchange. It was a man's world, after all. Brave warrior Fonce 'had' mentioned He had owned several slaves that did not love Him, and He also mentioned passion as a thing He liked. It was no surprise that I liked my world happy, even if I was acutely aware that life was not always so. Happy or sad, hate or love....passion was both a part and independent.

Passion.

I touched passion, though it was a bit more decadent and played out over the floor boards of a wagon. My mind traveled there and ...stayed. Dee had left, and I had dropped my knitting, trailing my fingers over the blue blossom that I had strung around my throat. I could feel the waxy satin softness of it, in contrast to how my amulet had the warm fuzz of thread and the cool pebbles of beads. My pulse fluttered the delicate lobe beneath my touch, and as I let my mind wander to tales of the flesh with a man who stole my breath, likewise I felt the quickening throb.

Shel and her toddlers strolled by just about then. Passing through in search of the perfect picnic spot, they paused long enough to exchange greetings, while I snatched up my knitting with a telltale fluster painted on my cheeks. The heat did not ebb, merely simmered then. Lapping at my thoughts through the rest of the evening. Stirred and overturned, the added sensations of His wagon, the scents, the reminders raced hotly until I was compelled to take advantage of the secret solitude.

Women have urges, I was learning. strong urges and deep aches and intense longings. A body's natural reaction to stimulus, fueled to an inferno with each incidence of thought, sight, or mere closeness to the Man she worshipped as Master Hero. There was a beauty to this. It only seemed fitting that He that held her future in His hand should hold too...the key to her every possible ecstasy.

While my daydreams had taken on a more 'decadent' quality, spiced with dark shades of unknown arousal, I attributed the daring explorations of fantasies to something Fonce inspired. There was no path I wasn't willing to test, most held in the mist of my naivete. Preparing His wagon was becoming such sweet torture. The canvas whispered, the furs moaned, the floor thrummed out secrets in His voice and I shed my inhibitions along with my shift and fell into the merciless caress of my dreams. How long before that need and desire would become the sonnet of my whisper? my pleas - the timber of my voice, and my existence danced on the razor's edge of release.