The weekend bore its dull weeks' ending. Monotony was becoming a recurring theme among the Good Doctor's daily accomplishments. Not yet ready to head home she wandered aimlessly down town towards and thoughts of her last client evoked images that lingered darkly as she failed to come to grips with the apparent honesty of her last confession.
Cosseting explicit descriptions of her indiscretions, client 'V' revelled in shocking her confidant. Indulging her fantasies, she seduced the low lives with the curves of her body. Though her accounts betrayed a sardonic tone, it was clear she relished every minute of her undulated adoration; she found the power behind her seductive quality to be her drug inebriating her raison d' etre. To her saturated mind, she saw no other purpose than to observe the powers she held over these pansies, for though she was paid to twist and turn her saunter, it enthralled her being. She saw them as weak beings for which she had no respect; relinquishing their power over to her was a shoddy choice for in that lay their weakness. Yet power is what she had, and she drank that nectar well.
Approaching the cusp of middle age the Good Doctor's life was a rulebook for the not so challenged. She played the game well, achieved the regard, and followed the path paved for the elite few, the yellow brick road if you would. Sure, she had friends that satisfied her obvious needs, but it was the satisfied part that was not in lieu with her. She could never really understand the condition of contentment, with her there was always a burning desire for more. She could never understand mere existence, for to her that is not what humans were placed on this earth for, to simply exist. She could never understand the day-to-day lemming-like mechanism that rendered a human 'complete'. These words aroused sentiments that elicited a distinct state of mind she could never disregard, a feeling that portended a continuous state of eruption. Knowledge no longer offered a reprieve and even though the continuing pursuit offered some restoration, it began to manifest a dissatisfaction that lingered in sub-conscious waiting. Love, she thought she had but then again it did follow that rulebook of which she was so wary. Peter was caring and attentive, he was not spontaneous or passionate, but he did attend the social milieu that satisfied her inner circle. Nonetheless, the void was there, she could not quite place where it lay, but she knew better than to project it onto him. No, she knew it was with her the die had fallen.
She found herself down a shady cobble-stoned side street her thoughts interrupted by low hanging shop window. Its dusty wood-lined frame enwrapped a dingy mishap of a boutique. The dΓ©cor alone intrigued her; forgotten and unkempt, the dishevelments appealed to her current disposition of forgetting and escape. She had spent far too much time in deep thought of late and it became increasingly clear the need for action was long overdue. She made for the nearest exit but as she turned, a glistening in the far corner of the window caught her eye. In the corner of the shop window, staring at her square, lay a discarded sequin-lined smoky-black satin feline mask with a carmine lace trim along the curve of the cheeks. The mask and its encumbrance had always captured her interest since she had perfected that route all too often; almost afraid of the power it was able to unleash she held it at a safe distance away. With this, with this lay the threshold to her freedom, with this she would capture the libertine she refused to recognise, the epitome of all that was woman, a liberty from the mask she had grown all too accustomed to wearing.
Its hypnotic power held its gaze as she soon found herself purchasing her prize. Mesmerised by its seductive quality, the epitome of female sexuality, the feline mask held its talent to no disrepute; under this influence, she began to appreciate the sensations client 'V' described with relish and soon found herself aroused by her recount. She recalled that her client was on a very different sort of engagement and in a moment of latent impulse, she seized the opportunity to test the powers behind the feline mask.
It did not take her long to locate that seedy establishment her client occasions and soon found herself making a rather irresistible deal with the greasy haired proprietor. Gerome, glib, slimy, and pot-bellied ran his plasmodial eyes over her well-trained form; he stood to make a bob or two with this fresh meat, not only had she offered a sum in this deal but she was quite the looker too, something all little more refined than what the current clientele was accustomed. A thought rested on the female role: was this really the way to regain the power the Neanderthal beings stole from us? There was a time when it was women, the devadasi, who were worshiped for their better qualities, the mother earth, the giver of life, the intuitive mysticality that testosterone failed to lock onto. Their ability to attenuate the worldly burdens and adhere to the higher qualities made them revered beings offering a union mediating men and god. Married to the higher deity, a union with them was considered an act of reverent worship of that which is pure and sacred under the eyes of the heavens. If she weren't so eager to indulge the powers behind the feline mask she'd barf all over this letch. A sorry state for human existence, this 'protector', and all he represented was the reason for the demise of womankind in all her glory, drunk with their masculine qualities, it was becoming all too clear that these men folk were doing a shoddy job in their rein.
Her nerve was beginning to fail as the jazzy beat pricked her ears. In a moment of centeredness, she shut out the world and all its weight allowing the waves of rhythmic measure tempo her pulse. In the day, she had mastered the intimate caveats of the human psyche yet she lacked the happenings behind the cold rude world and all its calluses that proffered the experience of the human condition. The bassy tempo was the push she need, following no mercy, she slid the feline mask over her smooth red-brown hair, and the game was on.
What the feline mask unleashed was the all freedom kept safely at bay from breathing its wondrous talent, feeling its enormous beauty, revelling in its divine sublimity. Having grown up with a passport to the norm, she had always wondered what it you be like to enact the impulses her patients failed to suppress. No fuel was needed; her anonymity being the source of her intoxication played such a treacherous game; behind the feline mask she betrayed every natural order she was accustomed, from this her dark eros emerged. A warm capacity rose from her solar plexus, on the stage she stretched out her carcass, her arms affording the emblem of dominant royalty, there is something terribly sensual with all that rising and stretching when the warmth pours through her limbs down through her fingers and toes. Her curves submitted to the grey light, her hips enhanced by the light, her waist diminished by the dancing shadows, her swollen breasts superior to all that was before; those that observed beheld the film noir save her blood-red pout sublimated only by her glistening crown.
It was here where the discovery of her true self emerged from the darkness, of what she was capable, and the sirens of the shadows raised its head in salute to that which we call woman. As a youth, she often wondered how these sirens talented the skill of such seduction, the mysterious recipe bound for the heart of the human soul. In her performance discovered the seat of all that was sought after was optimum desire, the opium, and its search for it became an all-consuming passion as she begun to understand why her patients did as they did. The excitement fuelled her synapses far better than the remedials she prescribed. With each twist and turn her inner thoughts became saturated with images of desire. Fuelled by the sea of transfixed faces she became sodden her own desire to capture the eyes of the falling down. Her legs folded round the pole; her derrière extended its intent to the bassy tune of lust, her youthful dancers dream served its purpose for she never lost a beat. Empowered by the cold hard metal against her warm potent flesh she slid her torso along its boundary, immoveable, steadfast, she could do anything so long as the pole remained immutable. She would of stayed there all night save she had to finish what she had started.
