## Archive-name: Sartre:Too.Late

From: taa2@po.CWRU.Edu (Tamara A. Adrine-Davis)

Subject: SARTRE: TOO LATE

Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories

NOTE: My site periodically lets loose the net.daemons who proceed to wreak havoc on poor unsuspecting posts by cutting off the first few lines. Therefore, this is just a bit of drivel to fool the pesky little creatures into thinking that they have thwarted my efforts and to protect my words from harm.

Sitting on the window sill night after night and day after day awaiting His return. Hoping, praying that it's not too late. Too late. She can still feel His touch. The tenderness, the caring. She can still feel the way He looked at her when she was at her best, unlike she is now. Now, there's no one to care that her eyes are a bit weary and her hair is a bit mussed. Not like the way she used to be. For Him everything had to be just right. She was His, her Master, her lover, her mentor, her friend. Now, there's no one to care that she bought a new garter or some other "unmentionable" simply to please--only to please--Him. No, no one to care what she looks like because now she is alone.

Gone are the days when she could look forward to Him coming up the walk and taking her into His arms. Never again. Gone are the days when she could hear His voice so near over hundreds of miles of fiber optic cable. Oh, she tried to call Him one night, just to say hi. He politely told her that she'd made her decision and He'd respect it. (Ha!) "Too bad old girl. You've made your bed, now lay in it," He seemed to say. Still, she sits and waits. Just sits and waits. But why does she wait for Him night after night and day after day? She's young and not bad to look at. She knows how to turn a man on with just her scent. She knows how to smile and light up a room. But mostly, she knows how to love and how to give. Yes, this is what she knows best. Still, she sits and waits, for Him. Too late?

The memories unfold on the window pane as though it were a movie screen. The voices playing in her head like a soundtrack.

"May I be your slave sir?", she asks as she stands naked and vulnerable before him.

"We'll see," He says wryly and smiles that wicked smile that she loves so much.

"We'll see sir?", she questions puzzled and ignorant.

"Yes, we'll see. It's something that you must earn," He replies almost like a stern father considering a child's reward.

He'd taken her that night with just the right mixture of violence and tenderness. She'd given Him permission to do what someone had done without asking a lifetime ago. He laid soft suede to her skin for the first time and she writhed. He tormented her body with pain and she squirmed. He told her not to move in that soft, but ever so slightly dangerous voice, and she was still. Not only did He take her body, He took her soul. It was His to take, and hers to give. By then the bond had been formed never to be broken, or so they thought. It was then that she knew that she'd love Him. Master, lover, mentor, friend. Yes, she was His.

"How could you lie to me?!", she lashes.

"I didn't lie to you," He answers in an effort to defend against her attack.

"Why? Why didn't you tell me?", she prods through the tears of pain and betrayal.

"I didn't lie to you. I just didn't tell you. I don't know why," He counters none too convincingly.

"Damn you to hell!", she fires.

"You're killing me," He whispers like the wounded warrior that He'd become, stopping her cold.

She sits on the window sill and waits day after day and night after night. Through sun. Through rain. Through falling leaves. She waits, but only for Him. She banished Him from her life for what seemed like good reasons at the time. In her mind, she knows that she did the right thing. Still, she sits and waits. She waits hoping that He'll knock on the door and take her into His arms again. Hoping that she'll hear that soft, but ever so slightly dangerous, voice once more. Hoping that He'll look at her the way He used to when she was at her best, not like she is now. Hoping that He'll care that she bought a new garter and stockings and crotchless simply to please-- only to please--Him. Hoping that He'll take her again and make her His. Hoping that He'll be her Master, lover, mentor, friend. Hoping against hope that it's not too late. Too late.

Sitting on the window sill watching the rain, surrounded by her movies of memories long past, she hears a familiar voice that draws her back into today. A voice so sweet and loving and kind, but ever so slightly dangerous. It is not His voice, but that of another. This lovely voice belonged to one who'd seen her staring out into the emptiness alone and wanting one day. This one had been patient and understanding beyond anything that could rightfully be expected. She'd come to love this man with the voice, though it was not His. It would never be His again. Too late.

"Love, it's time," said the man with the voice.

"Yes Master," she obediently replied, knowing that yes, it was time to stop sitting on the window sill waiting for Him to return.

With that, she knelt down in front of the man with the voice with head slightly bowed and said, "I am yours Master. You may do with me as you wish." He held her close to him and smiled, loving her the more for loving another and choosing to give her body and soul to him. She was his. His slave, lover, pupil, friend. Yes, it was too late--for Him.

Sartre

* The Child cries amidst the BlackHole. So alone. So dark. Why was no * * one there to hear hir pleas? What crime had sie commited? Sie would * * give anything to escape the BlackHole. Anything at all. *

* The Child cries amidst the BlackHole. So alone. So dark. Why was no * * one there to hear hir pleas? What crime had sie commited? Sie would * * give anything to escape the BlackHole. Anything at all. *

Last modified (10/09/96 12:15:54) by Eli-the-Bearded.

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