Bondage
There's a catalogue on the table. Souvenir of an expedition to purchase a riding crop.
Waiting for the rice to cook I flick through. Images of airbrushed blondes in PVC and simulated passion. Corsetry, cuffs, cockrings.
Trappings of bondage. The timer goes off and i replace the parade of fetish. The ring I wear thunks the wood.
Feet of Clay
I'm a rock goddess.
Each of my fans is the most devoted, the most knowledgeable, has the best collection of snippets from my most obscure moments.
As I lie here the cacophony of all my devotees, my disciples, is like the screaming of the wheeling seagulls.
They all know me. Every experience is in their catalogue; they have formed me in their image.
Like an animated doll I perform, I give them my music, I conform to their moulding.
I want to stretch. The web of fandom is constricting me.
"She'd never say that, do that, think that."
Accents sure and confident. Expectations met, prejudice complied with.
It's still now. My own thoughts deafening where before they were drowned.
I am a rock goddess.
I only have one fan to please now.
Behind the veil
I adjust the face covering that I am required to wear.
The attire deemed appropropriate for my day out in the world is less than comfortable, however there really is no choice.
I have to look "right". My chances of success rely on conforming to the regulations of dress and behaviour.
However once my ability becomes apparent I will be allowed more freedom.
One day I may be able to leave the lippy in the drawer.
Not myself
I'm not feeling myself today. The face in the bathroom mirror seemed unfamiliar. The right features, just not me.
Dressing. I put on one girl's pants, another's top and rummage for a third's shoes. I still can't find me.
Even the cat notices.
"Come on, breakfast!"
Not even my own voice. He and I share a wide eyed moment.
Ah bugger it. I stop looking for myself and make a cup of tea.
It might be fun to be someone else today.
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Very short short stories.
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