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The weekend bore its dull weeks’ ending. Monotony was becoming a recurring theme among the Good Doctor’s daily accomplishments. Not yet ready to head home she wandered aimlessly down town towards and thoughts of her last client evoked images that lingered darkly as she failed to come to grips with the apparent honesty of her last confession.

Cosseting explicit descriptions of her indiscretions, client ‘V’ revelled in shocking her confidant. Indulging her fantasies, she seduced the low lives with the curves of her body. Though her accounts betrayed a sardonic tone, it was clear she relished every minute of her undulated adoration; she found the power behind her seductive quality to be her drug inebriating her raison d’ etre. To her saturated mind, she saw no other purpose than to observe the powers she held over these pansies, for though she was paid to twist and turn her saunter, it enthralled her being. She saw them as weak beings for which she had no respect; relinquishing their power over to her was a shoddy choice for in that lay their weakness. Yet power is what she had, and she drank that nectar well.

Approaching the cusp of middle age the Good Doctor’s life was a rulebook for the not so challenged. She played the game well, achieved the regard, and followed the path paved for the elite few, the yellow brick road if you would. Sure, she had friends that satisfied her obvious needs, but it was the satisfied part that was not in lieu with her. She could never really understand the condition of contentment, with her there was always a burning desire for more. She could never understand mere existence, for to her that is not what humans were placed on this earth for, to simply exist. She could never understand the day-to-day lemming-like mechanism that rendered a human ‘complete’. These words aroused sentiments that elicited a distinct state of mind she could never disregard, a feeling that portended a continuous state of eruption. Knowledge no longer offered a reprieve and even though the continuing pursuit offered some restoration, it began to manifest a dissatisfaction that lingered in sub-conscious waiting. Love, she thought she had but then again it did follow that rulebook of which she was so wary. Peter was caring and attentive, he was not spontaneous or passionate, but he did attend the social milieu that satisfied her inner circle. Nonetheless, the void was there, she could not quite place where it lay, but she knew better than to project it onto him. No, she knew it was with her the die had fallen.

She found herself down a shady cobble-stoned side street her thoughts interrupted by low hanging shop window. Its dusty wood-lined frame enwrapped a dingy mishap of a boutique. The décor alone intrigued her; forgotten and unkempt, the dishevelments appealed to her current disposition of forgetting and escape. She had spent far too much time in deep thought of late and it became increasingly clear the need for action was long overdue. She made for the nearest exit but as she turned, a glistening in the far corner of the window caught her eye. In the corner of the shop window, staring at her square, lay a discarded sequin-lined smoky-black satin feline mask with a carmine lace trim along the curve of the cheeks. The mask and its encumbrance had always captured her interest since she had perfected that route all too often; almost afraid of the power it was able to unleash she held it at a safe distance away. With this, with this lay the threshold to her freedom, with this she would capture the libertine she refused to recognise, the epitome of all that was woman, a liberty from the mask she had grown all too accustomed to wearing.

Its hypnotic power held its gaze as she escort ankara soon found herself purchasing her prize. Mesmerised by its seductive quality, the epitome of female sexuality, the feline mask held its talent to no disrepute; under this influence, she began to appreciate the sensations client ‘V’ described with relish and soon found herself aroused by her recount. She recalled that her client was on a very different sort of engagement and in a moment of latent impulse, she seized the opportunity to test the powers behind the feline mask.

It did not take her long to locate that seedy establishment her client occasions and soon found herself making a rather irresistible deal with the greasy haired proprietor. Gerome, glib, slimy, and pot-bellied ran his plasmodial eyes over her well-trained form; he stood to make a bob or two with this fresh meat, not only had she offered a sum in this deal but she was quite the looker too, something all little more refined than what the current clientele was accustomed. A thought rested on the female role: was this really the way to regain the power the Neanderthal beings stole from us? There was a time when it was women, the devadasi, who were worshiped for their better qualities, the mother earth, the giver of life, the intuitive mysticality that testosterone failed to lock onto. Their ability to attenuate the worldly burdens and adhere to the higher qualities made them revered beings offering a union mediating men and god. Married to the higher deity, a union with them was considered an act of reverent worship of that which is pure and sacred under the eyes of the heavens. If she weren’t so eager to indulge the powers behind the feline mask she’d barf all over this letch. A sorry state for human existence, this ‘protector’, and all he represented was the reason for the demise of womankind in all her glory, drunk with their masculine qualities, it was becoming all too clear that these men folk were doing a shoddy job in their rein.

Her nerve was beginning to fail as the jazzy beat pricked her ears. In a moment of centeredness, she shut out the world and all its weight allowing the waves of rhythmic measure tempo her pulse. In the day, she had mastered the intimate caveats of the human psyche yet she lacked the happenings behind the cold rude world and all its calluses that proffered the experience of the human condition. The bassy tempo was the push she need, following no mercy, she slid the feline mask over her smooth red-brown hair, and the game was on.

What the feline mask unleashed was the all freedom kept safely at bay from breathing its wondrous talent, feeling its enormous beauty, revelling in its divine sublimity. Having grown up with a passport to the norm, she had always wondered what it you be like to enact the impulses her patients failed to suppress. No fuel was needed; her anonymity being the source of her intoxication played such a treacherous game; behind the feline mask she betrayed every natural order she was accustomed, from this her dark eros emerged. A warm capacity rose from her solar plexus, on the stage she stretched out her carcass, her arms affording the emblem of dominant royalty, there is something terribly sensual with all that rising and stretching when the warmth pours through her limbs down through her fingers and toes. Her curves submitted to the grey light, her hips enhanced by the light, her waist diminished by the dancing shadows, her swollen breasts superior to all that was before; those that observed beheld the film noir save her blood-red pout sublimated only by her glistening crown.

It was here where the discovery of her true self emerged from the darkness, of what she was capable, and the sirens mamak escort of the shadows raised its head in salute to that which we call woman. As a youth, she often wondered how these sirens talented the skill of such seduction, the mysterious recipe bound for the heart of the human soul. In her performance discovered the seat of all that was sought after was optimum desire, the opium, and its search for it became an all-consuming passion as she begun to understand why her patients did as they did. The excitement fuelled her synapses far better than the remedials she prescribed. With each twist and turn her inner thoughts became saturated with images of desire. Fuelled by the sea of transfixed faces she became sodden her own desire to capture the eyes of the falling down. Her legs folded round the pole; her derrière extended its intent to the bassy tune of lust, her youthful dancers dream served its purpose for she never lost a beat. Empowered by the cold hard metal against her warm potent flesh she slid her torso along its boundary, immoveable, steadfast, she could do anything so long as the pole remained immutable. She would of stayed there all night save she had to finish what she had started.

??

The sight of the hard-earned door of the hard-earned home conjured up a melancholy that remained indignant in its prolonged sustenance. This was what it all was for? With instinct betrayed by the nights’ hungry exploits, she reached for the threshold of her psychic freedom; its silken tie smoothing over her red-brown hair, the sound alone is pre-emptive. The door slams behind her as she slips off her coat. Devoid of a single utterance, she continued to shed one garment after another, allowing them to fall to the floor she strutted her hip-accentuating saunter one foot squarely in front of the other. She stood before her paramour threadbare save her black satin six-inches. In a single act of submission, she knelt before him pressed between his legs she raised her chin up towards his face. He leaned forward, slowly, holding her beseeching face he pressed his lips upon her face and kisses her deeply the way a woman always yearns. Her smoky eyes fix firmly on him she withdraws from in him in a reverse cat-like prowl; she draws up a chair and lowers herself onto it as she stretches her legs athwart their spread. She runs her right hand the length of her inner thigh allowing her fingers to linger at their meeting point.

‘Eat this’.

Like a trance in Mesmer’s bewitchment absent of intent, transfixed he can do no other than to obey this enticing command, he strode towards her, and their eyes locked communicating everything and nothing. At times like these when two souls connect a single word needn’t be uttered, all that could be said would never suffice. In the mind of the seducer, a fantasy one contrives often limits in the psychology of the other. A art is found in the creation of a parallel sensation, in making the other feel as you feel. He kneels before her dewy pink, his moist tongue releases its’ upward stroke, she lets out a throaty moan, ‘yes, that’s my boy.

He rose to his feet and put forward his hand to her. She placed her hand in his as he pulled her to her feet. Without losing her gaze, he sat down in the chair pulling her onto him with his hands around her thighs. The gentle stoke along the contours of her neck down to her clavicle followed by a firm grasp of the breast is enough to send a girl’s blood rushing. That is what he did, made her blood rush. It that been some time since he had done that to her and his intent pursuit aroused her even further. The firmness, yet tenderness, of his grip sent a red-hot surge through her cranium, yenimahalle escort blinding her with desire and lust she missed a breath, her mind, vacant of every thought she could feel every inch of her pulsing. This was how she wanted it to be. As she rolled her head back, he tugged her hair, which gave her another blinding rush; warm white light bathed her senses. He placed his hands squarely on her shoulders and pulled her onto him so deeply her pupils widened to their max and that, was all she needed. That buzz took its hold. She wrapped her heeled legs around the legs of the chair with silent intent; it was in control that drove her completely out of control. She wrapped her arms around the back of the chair thrusting deeply as if it were never enough, him helpless laid a puppet in her action. Like a succubus she took his fever, surrounded by the red-hot glow they lost their senses to the tangible these two souls rose united in the throws of passion entered the Pleroma and the revolving universe implodes unleashing the stars in the cosmic heaven.

Him: grateful for his sensuous surprise rolled over to a deep restful slumber. Her: restless, something inside her was stirring, harrowing, and raising its ugly head out of the beaten shadow that her milieu worked so hard to suppress. Years of obeying, following the rules of socio-economic conduct was beginning to backfire. She of all people should know that it was inevitable. She was always the determined one, the wild child; she knew her own mind and did not need to be told, but her parents caught it early on while she was young and managed the control the inner fire the used to burn a hole in every ironclad law of the sophisticate. In a fit of disgust with her inability to coax herself into the arms of wanton forgetting in the land of the forgotten few, she headed for the bathroom cabinet and found the false-labelled sleeping pills she kept ‘only for emergencies’. Startled by the civilised image that did not reflect the dark barbarous soul that refused to join the manufactured refinement cultivated by the very ones that needed cultivating, she stared back into those dark fiery eyes in search of the lost true self, something was stirring, she didn’t know what would come, but she know it would come.

That night she dreamed she laid supine upon an alter of sensual indulgence. Yielding herself to the fur-lined fingers on her form she surrendered to the worship of the rich Adonises the heavens blessed upon the earth. Her every corner were carefully attended to the tones of her sensual desire, her vulva engorged through the shucking of her toes, the nibbling under the curve of her breasts, her nipples sucked to the ripest pink, her inner thighs clawed drawing the blood to the surface of her goose-pimpled skin. Warm moist tongues found their way to every crevice, mounds, and erogenous zones. The garden of her ecstasy flourished with juices of fruition as they guided her hands to the only place she would truly arrive, for she alone held the master key to the doorway of her rapture. With unbridled passion, she embraced her charge; her fingers rubbed the velvety folds of her pinkness, her nails grazing her pulsing clitoris pinching it to its peek. Wave after wave of hormones reverberated her innards, impulses raged, fingers rubbed harder, she felt her mind about to explode when in a sudden gush a hormone filled red glow enveloped her as the doorway burst open with the juices of unbridled passion, and, she found herself wake, panting heated breaths of lustful decadence.

The pre dawn alarm wakes him from slumber’s escape. In He-man tones, he raises his heavy head, showers off that tell-tail musky scent. Douches, hair slicked back. Starched white-collar ruffles over his well-defined hard-earned traps, slacks on, belt bucked, tie pinched, blazer armed.

‘Remember your keys,’ she calls out.

Briefcase in hand, he opens the door and steps out back into an ordinary life.

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