Author: Wade Mondegam, Copyright © 1997 Master Wade.

This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit without the written permission of the author. This story may be freely distributed with this notice attached. The author may be contacted through mrdouble@ix.netcom.com.

Slave,

I know that I cannot speak to you of the desire I feel whenever I think of you. It is only flattery to you, a hollow clanging, a barrier to the friendship you would limit us to.

I cannot speak to you of the times you are in my dreams, for you are not mine, but his. You speak of his showing you the way, of his being first with you, and there is no error in your claim. No error now, no error afterward, when he has taken you.

There exists in me the primitive man who would raise the army required to take you from him. Such clanging of swords would be music to this Master's ears, and the deed would be done. No matter the cost.

There exists also in me that one who cares not who you serve, or even if you serve, but who cares for you. This one cannot wish that ill become you, even the happy misfortune of not wanting his touch. This one would lift you and carry you to him on chariots of gold, speeded by handsome mounts, and would deliver you to him, your joy, your happiness, my only concern, my only hope.

What misery I feel in being torn thus! Shall I withdraw to other lands, hiding within my heart the memory of this one I knew? Can this heart so full stand the pain of such separation from you, or will it be torn assunder by its longing? What then, would be my fate?

Others there are who would take the spot reserved for you here. They plead longingly for that which is so easily ignored by you, for that which is offered you so hungrily. "Why, Master, must you wait for her? Why do you not cast aside your longing and let us serve you as she will not?" Why, indeed.

I can not turn from you, beloved one, no more than I can accept your camping at his tent with the joy you would have me feel for you. What you must do is a spear into my side, a bleeding of that which brings life itself to me. But do it, you must. Do it, you will.

I shall not wish he find disfavor in your service, nor will I pray his Mastery fail you. My prayer instead will be for victory to come, for conquering which does not leave me wanting.

Oh, wretched days ahead! Escape this mind, this troubled soul! Thoughts begone, fears away! Race ahead slow plodding time, to another day more filled with love, less filled with pain!

My messenger will not further come to trouble this other's slave. This post is last until such time as his claim I see you waive. To seek release is still your right, your freedom to reclaim. Shall I not ask at the witching hour? Shall I not call your name?

My camp is open always, my servants at your call. There is no end to my wanting, no limit, none at all. Call upon this Master, slave, this one who is so real, and he will pull you to him, your beating heart to feel.

I cannot take what is not a gift, for such taking is in vain. Do know, most precious serving girl, do hear my words as plain: He waits who so implores you, who kneeling shames his crown. He waits not for a moment, nor til the sun sinks down. He waits til your surrender is total and complete. He waits until you come to him, kneeling at his feet.