It's okay to be your love slave waiting upon your whim. You so easily take me for granted since you own my soul ever and always. I understand. I pretend sometimes to be a statue in your garden that comes to life when you appear, because you are magic, because with a few words you can make me joyous, triumphant and courageous. With you I can do anything, without you nothing.

It's okay that my life is forfeit for your pleasure. Command me to leap off the precipice. I can only comply.

It's okay that I ache for you always, my addiction apparent. A few minutes deprivation brings me pangs of withdrawl. Like a sickness, this constant wanting, this all-consuming fever leaves me strength only to give you what you desire.

I do not begrudge you your life, those other people, your business, your privacy. I understand these things. I do not ask, but only hope you will have a little spare time for your lowly slave, your thing whose sole purpose is your pleasure.

It's okay that I am only happy when you use me.

It's okay that my friends ask me, how can I live like this? They have no conception of the depth of joy you hold for me. They do not understand the magnificence of your body, the daunting depth and complexity of your mind, the mystic wonder and power of your soul. I pray that should you ever tire of me my life should end that moment, that I might not suffer the loss of all that makes my life worth any single breath. Indeed I only wish to breathe if there is a promise that sometime when I inhale I will inhale your scent.

It's okay that your scent instantly arouses me, an instinctive trigger, your maddening scent, a must-have scent that allows me no rest. Times like the present when you are elsewhere occupied, the memory of it vexes my spirit, reminding me that you are gone. Nothing completely drives the memory of you away. Not my writing, my poetry, my music or my sport can wholly distract from the fixation I have for your smell, your touch, your taste.

It's okay if you deprive me, my mistress, and dare I say, my love. A slave can love his mistress and show no insolence, for the supremacy is always and completely yours. Your slave awaits your pleasure the more ardent, the more urgent for your deprivation, until like an arrow pulled back against a bowstring. I wait, a missile of passion awaiting its only possible release.

It's okay.