DIRTY, SHE SAID

With the tip of her unpolished nails she plays by the rim of the glass resting infront of her by the surface of the bar, beautifully raw, like she. The intensity of her libation she thought to match well the situation. Anticipation had been building up since the sun raised, she had been gently commanded. Good girl, he had said, she very well knows how good she is and is overall aware she is no girl no more, but this, was a game she was curious to play. She enjoys her own company by the bar, to the movies, through anything else she does throughout the day. On full control, her life is very much of her own. Still, collaboration in certain areas of this kind of fulfilled lives can be quite lovely and delightful. She is a mother, to her inner child and to all of the wonderful creatures that live in her mind, nevertheless, she had enjoyed this affair with this, her new friend for the day. They met under the same underlined demands, left, almost, no trace behind besides the burning on her left cheek she could feel while resting by the, apparently, not soft enough though very elegantly designed stol she is seated on, reminding her to the whip in his hand, how it made her laught but no further emotion than that, a substitute feeling for the lack of substantial and deeper spasms. It had been fun. The collar buckled by her neck attached to the leash she had been directed with had left a subtle red rash by her smooth and silky skin, she applies on it the coldness in her hand transferred by the drink she is celebrating all the flashbacks of this her latest venture with. Being dominated is not in her nature but this had been well consented and accepted. The delightfully present and teasing cravings under her skin should not be ignored, she has learned. highly un-recommended in the making of a healthy mind, an advice she so naturally endorses. Intense red, whether a curse or a bless, it runs through her veins. Yin-yang molecules make their way through her nose with every breath she takes, travelling in and out through her poors. Tapping now her lips with her fingertips she gets that silly grin on her face. The last olive in the cocktail pick, resting in the emptiness of a glass with dripping brine remains by its crystalline walls, will receive the last bite of the night in which she opened the door to that room she had not been before.

Dirty, she said. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts.

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