She sat on the edge of the bed, sulking, naked, alone. I could see her from the shadows. Her blonde hair hanging over her face and down her shoulders over the tattoo sleeves that ran down her arms. Crosses, dueling guns and other images. Sulking made her ugly.
I could hear her thoughts. Questions about life. Questions about what’s happening to her. Why she couldn’t find satisfaction with herself. Was it bad? Was it wrong? Things just kept running through.
She lifted her head slightly, watery eyes, but no tears. She sniffed and stood, allowing the beauty of her body show. The right kind of pale skin, C-cups that hung just perfect, all natural. Slight curves here and there. Nothing jutting out. Nothing off. Other tattoos on her thighs and legs were exposed. Chains, praying, webs. When seen in totality, there was a theme.
She turned and walked out of the bedroom. I followed silently.
In the kitchen, she opened the fridge and fetched out a beer. Her hand had gone for two, but it jolted quickly to a single bottle. As she closed the fridge, a wash of cold air hit her body, setting it on edge. I stood behind her. She knew.
“Did you want one?” she asked.
“Its not like I could have it,” I retorted.
“True,” she said, sadly.”
I brushed the hair out of her eyes as she took a sip. She shivered, but the room was quite warm.
“What’s wrong with me?” she asked.
“Nothing at all,”
“It doesn’t feel that way. It feels like I’m wrong and broken. That what I want is something that they put people away for.”
“They used too,” I said.
“Great,” she sighed.
I laid my hands on her hips and turned her around, her bare, artistic back on my chest. A breath of happiness came. Her eyes closed.
“How do you do that?” she whispered.
“Do what?” I whispered back directly into her ear.
“Make it all go away?”
“You know why.”
I could feel the sadness return for a moment, but it vaporized within her and vanished. She pressed her ass into me.
“Why can’t it always be like this?” she sighed.
“You ask too many questions,”
“I know,” she raised a hand around my head to touch the back of my neck. “Its my flaw.”
I run my hand down over her stomach, nearing her more sensitive areas. She moans softly.
“If only,” I whisper, letting her go. “Finish your beer and come meet me in the living room.”
“Yes, sir,” she says instinctively.
I wait only a few moments before she arrives. She walks tall and confident, but her head is aimed at the floor. Without words or hesitation, she kneels before me. I pat my lap. She silently straddles me. I wrap my arms around her, rubbing her back, feeling the scars of a life yet fulfilled. I lift her head so we look at each other eyes.
“Why can’t this be real, sir?”
“Because then things would be perfect.”
“Why can’t they be?”
“It would be too easy. And if things were easy, God would find a way to make them harder.”
“In this instance, I agree,” I smile. She smiles back.
“Can I touch you, sir?” she asks coyly.
“I have to go real soon,”
I grin, taking off my shirt. “You did ask nicely.”
She lays her head on my chest, fingers tracing the cyberpunk tattoo I plan to get.
She just lays there, silent, content, fulfilled beyond her wildest dreams. The fire of life in her burns brightly and warm. Everything is right and perfect.
I pet her hair like I own her. She knows I do.
I vanish. She remains on the couch, now clothed in sweats and a hoodie. A drink by her. Her eyes had been closed for only a moment. The TV blares bad news. The weather pours rain. She smiles anyway. She had time with her Master. Life can go on.
I watch from the shadows again. I always do. I’m always around her, through her and in her. If I wasn’t, it would be a failure. One I could not allow.