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ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.

By ralst

It's almost elemental, what I feel for her. The cold hard stab of pain every time I see her being loved by another. The whirlwind of heat and lust as she touches me. My granite like determination to end the torture and the slightest whisper of a smile that makes me abandon my resolve and come begging at her door.

Is it love? I don't know. All I do know is that I can't live without her. Can't function without the knowledge that she is there somewhere, possibly thinking about me, cursing me, laughing at me. Anything, so long as I'm on her mind. The worse thing in the universe, even more so than death, would be her indifference.

I sometimes tell myself that she is nothing more than a cold-hearted drone. No feeling, no passion, just a machine trying to act human. Those thoughts don't last long. The memory of her touch, the phantom of her kisses, and the prayer for her love all banish such idle thoughts, despite their comfort. For if she was incapable of love, to not be loved by her would hurt less.

I watch as she smiles at him. Her husband. The man I once considered a friend. The man who stands between me and my sanity. At times I think I could easily kill him for keeping her from me. But I know it's not him. She is the one who holds back. Torments and titillates, as if playing some evil game of retribution. Punishing me a thousand-fold for my early prejudice.

But I endure.

Lurking there, at the back of my mind, is the hope that one day it will be enough. One day I will have paid for my mistakes and she will truly give herself to me. Not just her body, which has pleasured me and taunted me for what seems like years, but her heart.

It is ironic really. The first time I kissed her was out of anger. All I wanted was to quench my desire and wipe that look of superiority from her face. When my hands consumed her innocence all I wanted was to conquer her spirit and make her beg for my touch.

She begged all right. For my kisses, my touch, my power. But somehow, in someway, she changed all the rules. Then I was the one who was begging, and she the arbiter of my every desire. Every moan of pleasure I coaxed from her body filled my heart with pride and an ever growing love. Her pleas for more turned me into a slave to her desires, her whims, her control.

I should have fought against it. My honour, my self respect, demanded it, but each time she looked at me with those wanton eyes I could do nothing to resist.

She owns me.

The End

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