Sweet are the lips of My Girl
I call Her "Dear"
And sweet is the voice that swiftly follows.
My Dear, would You swiftly follow Me?
Would You at My word reach up and grab the moon
Then place it in My lap?
Would You tease Me...
Speak of matters of the heart
When all I want is the flesh?
Would You trivialize my pain
Then comfort Me with a mother's graces?
If I asked You to, would You slap My face
And beat Me like a slave?
Can I be your little concubine,
And still have You call Me Master when next Our eyes meet?
Can I, at My slightest whim, slap You, rape You,
Call it My right, and have You love Me still?
And this sweet little thing answered Me....
Yes. Yes, for love has tender affections
For those with a greater understanding of pain.
And I said unto Her
My dear, would You serve Your lover?
And this little whelp answered Me....
Never. I will only serve My master.
Lovers make for poor bedfellows.
This made Me smile.
For it is a rare thing to have so....
Anxious...
A servant.
A lover who does not want to be.
It's ironic.
I find My servants filled with a love of Me,
Yet never I for them.
But I found My best servant in the embodyment of the anit-lover,
Along with My heart's one desire.
My Dear, Sweet Lady.
Would You call Me love if I bid it done?
Yes, for a master can teach a willful servant...
A loving obedience.

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