Last night, when I was all tied up, on my knees, leash in place and he was taking disgusting pictures (literally disgusting, designed to make me look as terrible as possible) of me; I happened to glance at his face (usually, I look at his feet). He had this expression: one that can be described as an amalgamation of a child’s longing glace at unattainable candy, a pervert’s distant admiration of an oddity, a stalker’s careful observation of his obsession and a serial killer’s face right before he makes the first incision.
It was such a familiar expression that I never bothered to deconstruct it before.
After four hours in copy editing class thinking about his face instead of the correct usage of hyphens, I find that I am extremely honoured to be the recipient of that look.
(I also find that that it should not take four hours to teach or learn the correct usage of hyphens).
I often feel as if he gives me a world of pleasure and joy yet I am unable to give him that.
i really don’t feel that anymore.
Why would he look at me with such satisfaction, perversion and morbidity if he hadn’t found the joy in me that I’d found in him.
I feel happy.