The bookstore is always crowded early Saturday afternoon, and it's especially crowded with women. You can think what you want about me, but this is primary reason I go there. I go there to look at women, to be in the company of women. Then for the tea. Then for the books. It's what keeps me social when I am not here behind this screen, behind these keys, writing in solitary.
Of all the women there, I find myself repeatedly drawn to one. She's an employee. She stands at the head of the store, near the doors, presenting an electronic reader to the people who enter.
The thing which draws me most to her is the choker she wears. I tell myself that it's because the ornament is so unusual. Anachronistic. So far from our mostly rural culture that it couldn't glare less if it were made from neon tubing. I know this is a lie. It's the subtle symbolism of the choker which draws me. The symbolism of a collar.
She's young to me, about 30. She's just above average height for a woman. She's slender with subtle curves. Her hair is dark dark brown, straight, and just brushes her shoulders. She is dressed like a woman, as compared to many others who are clothed outright as men or seem determined to keep the Hanes company solvent for decades through their purchases of fleece active-wear. She wears a red silk blouse with an Empire waist that gathers just beneath and accentuates the subtle curves of her breasts. She wears black slacks tailored to her waist and hips and the line of her legs. She wears black heels which are not showy in height but which are definitely heels.
And she wears the choker. A black velvet ribbon choker, plain, without pendant, clasped in back in gold.
There is one thought which simply will not leave me: She is collared.
Collared. Marked as possession.
Don't seethe from my use of those words. A gold band on the third finger of the left hand provides the exact same symbolism without being as blatant. Honestly, in this age, it's also far less poignant. We've become so medicated that belonging has little significance. We've become so medicated that significance has little significance. Most of us follow a droning cadence meant to ease us from one moment to the next with as little effort as possible, while inside we feel lost, unfulfilled, drowning in our own numbness.
Looking at her makes me feel alive.
Collared, she is worthy of being possessed.
Collared, she requires of me qualities worthy of possessing such a possession.
Yes, you read that correctly. Her collared status requires something of me. Strength. Honor. Focus. I would be lying if I said I had all those things to the necessary degree. That's not a lack of confidence. That's clarity in vision and understanding what more is required.
In my thinking, her being a possession does not make her something less. She's not some fantasy robot cast in flesh -- some mindless, soulless fuck toy. She's more.
As I sit there considering the breadth and depth of such a prize, I am reminded how long I've been alone. My bed has been cold too long. My home has echoed only emptiness. I exist, but I am a fraction of what I can be. I regularly remind myself that I alone should be my reason for excelling, for being more than I am.
But my own whispers cause no stir in my soul.
What I need...
What I'm missing like a part of myself...
Bah, morose old man! Will you get to the fucking already?
No. Not this time. It's just not there.
All I have is the vision.
Who truly is possessed in possession?
Of all the women there, I find myself repeatedly drawn to one. She's an employee. She stands at the head of the store, near the doors, presenting an electronic reader to the people who enter.
The thing which draws me most to her is the choker she wears. I tell myself that it's because the ornament is so unusual. Anachronistic. So far from our mostly rural culture that it couldn't glare less if it were made from neon tubing. I know this is a lie. It's the subtle symbolism of the choker which draws me. The symbolism of a collar.
She's young to me, about 30. She's just above average height for a woman. She's slender with subtle curves. Her hair is dark dark brown, straight, and just brushes her shoulders. She is dressed like a woman, as compared to many others who are clothed outright as men or seem determined to keep the Hanes company solvent for decades through their purchases of fleece active-wear. She wears a red silk blouse with an Empire waist that gathers just beneath and accentuates the subtle curves of her breasts. She wears black slacks tailored to her waist and hips and the line of her legs. She wears black heels which are not showy in height but which are definitely heels.
And she wears the choker. A black velvet ribbon choker, plain, without pendant, clasped in back in gold.
There is one thought which simply will not leave me: She is collared.
Collared. Marked as possession.
Don't seethe from my use of those words. A gold band on the third finger of the left hand provides the exact same symbolism without being as blatant. Honestly, in this age, it's also far less poignant. We've become so medicated that belonging has little significance. We've become so medicated that significance has little significance. Most of us follow a droning cadence meant to ease us from one moment to the next with as little effort as possible, while inside we feel lost, unfulfilled, drowning in our own numbness.
Looking at her makes me feel alive.
Collared, she is worthy of being possessed.
Collared, she requires of me qualities worthy of possessing such a possession.
Yes, you read that correctly. Her collared status requires something of me. Strength. Honor. Focus. I would be lying if I said I had all those things to the necessary degree. That's not a lack of confidence. That's clarity in vision and understanding what more is required.
In my thinking, her being a possession does not make her something less. She's not some fantasy robot cast in flesh -- some mindless, soulless fuck toy. She's more.
As I sit there considering the breadth and depth of such a prize, I am reminded how long I've been alone. My bed has been cold too long. My home has echoed only emptiness. I exist, but I am a fraction of what I can be. I regularly remind myself that I alone should be my reason for excelling, for being more than I am.
But my own whispers cause no stir in my soul.
What I need...
What I'm missing like a part of myself...
Bah, morose old man! Will you get to the fucking already?
No. Not this time. It's just not there.
All I have is the vision.
Who truly is possessed in possession?