In The Garden of Lust
In The Garden of Lust
Walking up the steps of Miriam's broad front porch removes the clutter from my mind, stills my soul and allows the flutter of nerves in my tummy to extend downward toward my crotch where the sensuous thoughts of submission have their origin. I often feel more at home here than I do in my own house. Miriam's grand Victorian home is beautiful in its own right, worthy of the praise it has earned, but it is not the sumptuous house itself that transforms me, but what happens inside its doors that has drawn me back to its welcoming ambiance once again.
I began my day flushed with arousal, with my hand between my legs and my thoughts centered on the one desire that refuses to be silenced. I am sure the dreams that inspired this waking masturbation were themselves inspired by weeks of self torture-although I am a masochist to some degree, and torture in this case is strictly of the mental sort.
The first stirrings of my current agitated state had their beginnings in the fall, when I felt a familiar sensuality arise in me when we harvested the garden. The feral scents, the loamy earth, the taste of the dirt from a fresh plucked carrot all converged at once, drawing me into an inexplicable feeling of surrender that I often experience when my bare feet are firmly planted in the soil. Accompanying the emotional submission that arose in that unbidden moment was a fierce masculine presence that overwhelmed me with embracing arms and a significant authority over my being. I felt an elemental transformation, where in my thoughts, my attitude and my behavior, I became an acquiescent slave, ruled by this significant masculine energy and its firm hold over me.
Does this sound like nonsense? Of course, it did then and it does now. That domineering phantom does not exist. There is no body, no face, no physical form, no real voice to this male presence-even though I seem to hear it speak to me. Despite my vivid impressions, however, this unseen lover is strictly a product of fantasy. This is what I told myself as I tried to restore my sanity that fall afternoon. This is what I always say when I attempt to shun its erotic power. I shook off the feeling and went on with my task, while in the back of my mind I found myself enjoying the strange experience.
On one particular fall day, I was alone in the garden digging potatoes when I felt a certain shift in my being. A familiar one. Unlike previous experiences with this curious phenomenon, on that day I had no desire to stop the sweet rush of surrender as it hit me squarely in the gut. I practically orgasmed on the spot, and then spent several minutes enjoying my imaginary friend and the words his whispering voice interjected into my thoughts. This phantom Dom embodies the essence of authority, compassion and wildly wicked lust. I desire all three, and the more I dwelt on those significant elements the more I relished their beauty, the more my body, mind and emotions craved the real thing... a real dominant man to enter my life.
The sad result of that brief episode has been the desperate emptiness left gnawing at me when the erotic feeling eventually passed. But since then, the desire for surrender has become acute, and I have nowhere to turn for the real life experience of surrender that my being longs for.
I have considered that this seeming need is a product of some psychic hole in my life, the consequences of grief and the stress of a busy life. Though I've often wondered if the events of the last several years are responsible for these dreamy flights of sexual pleasure, I know better than to place much emphasis on my daily affairs.
The huge hole in my life was not caused with the death of my husband, who had the audacity to die three years ago when he crashed his motorcycle into a tree. Nor is it due to the rocky relationship with my twenty-one year old daughter, or the fact that my teaching job has been less than fulfilli