Tags: gayle c. straun, microfiction
by Gayle C. Straun
“I want to be your slave.”
She looked me up and down with piercing eyes, examining me, ready to toss me away unless I provided some amusement, and just maybe this was it. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, desperate not to be discarded and hoping that this desperation did not show—much.
“Why, exactly, do you want to be my slave?”
I gave her all the answers I knew. I told her that she was my Venus, my morning star, the distant fire in the sky that was the only planet I knew and wanted to know. My Venus, my goddess cruel and inspiring, the necessary choice of every Paris, every man, and but to be her fond worshipper for even a few brief seconds out of all eternity would be more than worth all the conquest of mortal empires I have achieved, all the destruction I have wrought upon countless lives. All this I told her, and more.
“But a slave? A true slave would do all that I command without a second thought—without even a first one. And you could never hope to achieve such perfection.”
“But we kings and despots are already slaves,” I retorted. “Always responding to the ambitions of princes and regents and wives, standing forever at the altar of sacrifice to be sliced open when our usefulness has ended.”
“How arrogant,” she hissed. “True slaves do not leave their name for posterity, either good or ill, but die anonymous deaths, live anonymous lives. You could no more imagine the life of a slave than you could the life of a worm. Unless….”
Oh, the oaths and promises that have been extracted in the face of that word, that “unless” and the space of silence lingering behind it like a wedding train dragging itself softly upon the ground. I, too, fell when that word was said. I, too, promised my life and more.
And she accepted.
Had I known then the mystical powers she possessed, would I have so easily offered myself to her fancy? She raised a commanding finger, as if bringing an offending hound to heel, and then said one word: “Down.”
There I reside now—down, no longer human as I remember it. On sunny days, I follow after her. I mimic her every step and sway. When she runs thin fingers through her hair, I do like to mine, my shape the very echo of hers. Always the slave, I crawl along below her, beneath her, a crisp and dark outline of her form on days when the sun hangs hotly in the sky, but vague and soft when clouds dampen its radiance. And when she ventures into her sacred glades, I follow along, shedding my borrowed clothing as she sheds hers down by the water’s edge, running my fingers through hair, across breasts, down into the tender folds of my borrowed sex as she dances circles around her swollen clit, as she plunges herself knuckles deep, deep, into her warm flesh. Should some stray mortal catches her eye, I follow her there, too. My shadow arms embrace the shadow of his body. My shadow lips merge and meld with the shadow of his mouth. My shadow self sinks upon the shadow of his erect cock, again and again, hips rocking and hands drawing circles around excited nipples.
When she comes, I follow her every movement. I arch my back. My arms go stiff. My mouth opens as she exhales her breathless moans, and my body collapses sweetly atop his. But I am a slave and do not share the treasure of her sensations. Sometimes, I think that she looks down at me, her shadow slave. Sometimes, I think that she even smiles at me, but I can never be sure.
Venus burns bright in her fancy. Venus infers nothing, imagines nothing, but takes whatever you will offer, lets you become exactly that which you wished. My hands are hers. My body is hers. My will is hers. But do I please her? I will never know, and it is not my place to ask.
Gayle C. Straun’s work has recently been featured in Like a Cunning Plan! and Like the Hand of Time.