An Episode



We would meet for lunch. She was a dancer, a disrobing dancer. Great ass. Met her in one of those BDSM clothing stores.

It was a cool spring day, early May. She wore a tight black tshirt - no bra - and a red and black plaid micro skirt we later bought at that same store. Micro. Really micro: showed a good half inch of her fine cheeks even as she walked. I met her at the 2nd floor elevator, we hugged, and took the ride down. We walked lightly together, past the ice creame stand, the sporting goods store, to the escalator. She smiled, and got on ahead of me. What a great ass. We would eventually eat on the first floor. But the escalator ride was always a part of our greeting.

She hops up two stairs ahead. I look forward under her little skirt - oh yes! - I look forward to what's under her little skirt -- mmm, sweet -- and what do I see? A thong (an ugly green/yellow thong at that). And she knows - she had obeyed before -- when we bought it I told her - nothing under this, ever. I see the thong, then look up at her, and she is looking back at me, smiling.

Life is short. Each moment is locked in the past before us while launching causation ahead. So here I have an association in my mind of that skirt and disappointment. Worse, of her need for my disappointment. There over her thong I see a smile on her face which is coming from a place not of a knowing graceful service to my own pleasure and joy. I see a smile rooted in my astonishment and disappointment. She knew how I loved her ass. It was a choice she made to withhold her ass's great pussitude from me. And this choice made her smile. These are lasting, spiritual relationships. And they are the wrong ones.

Further, from the moment she shimmy'd on that thong, until many minutes after I choose to acknowledge it, confront it, discipline her for it and require proof of mourning over it - from that moment through its entire resolution (for some minutes, for some hours, for others days) - SHE, the sub, was in control. It was her act of the will which determined our relationship for the next quanta of time, an act contrary to my will, enslaving me into the process of correcting it. Even if I chose to completely ignor it, my focus would be on the "it" I was ignorring, rather than the us, and the ready creame she supplies to lubricate us. I'm not a man prone to violence or the infliction of pain. But regardless how forceful and thorough my eradication of this transgression was or would be, I was a mere actor in a play she had scripted, doing something I did not want to do, doing something against my will, for the good of the pairing.

And so we see, the brat sub is actually no submissive at all. The moments of generous submission are merely transitional actings used to set up the disobedient controlling episodes which are at her heart. These episodes and behaviors work backwards and forwards in time, rotting and decaying the apparently sincere gestures of giving and service, tarnishing them with her selfish, scripted, manipulative impulses. You are what you return to. I return to pussy. I'm a man who loves women. You are what you return to. If you return to disruption, you love the disruption.

But what could have been: the sweetest cheeks, the delicious pleasing pink folds between them, the sweetly traced fresh creame all around them, the slight arch of the back, opening her red depths happily to me, the knowing generous wag causing that creamy canal to close and open and close in elevating rhythm; my smile, my joy, and rising to see her smile, saying "that's your ass baby, I wag it around so that we can be made one."

An ass not as a tool for foolishness, a 's bratty game of disobedience and punishment. No, sweet ever present cheeks made for a deeper reunion, an eternal communion. Mmmmmm, a subbie's sweet ass.

To Aphrodite, in the key of A Major, with stringed instruments.

tgd