'Our' Friday morning comes after a whole month asleep.
My mind has been a wave of images and senses-tingling thoughts of My Lady.
Every curve, every flick of Your hair,
every click of Your stiletto heels; the way You move
is familiar to me.
And Your concentration, as deep green eyes search mine
to discover where we are.
I know this place.
And yet all is still as the first time,
as if hand-in-hand, You lead me through a beautiful dream.
Our Friday is upon us, as I wake from You to my dreams of You.
micamino )0(;-/ xxxx
Thursday, 28 June 2012
"An ASDA Story"
Grey. It's all the same. Everyday a carbon copy of the last. I'm paid minimum wage to sit here and wave things in front of me until a bleep, tip them down the slope and ask if they've brought their own bags.
It's relentlessly unrelenting.
A tide of colourless humanity, with their predictable items; the economy tea, a copy of "OK" or "Hello" and their dishevelled clothes, lank hair and the modern look of defeat all over their sallow faces.
I glance out through the plate glass windows, past the trolleys, the coin machine and green and white bags and the herd of shuffling people, snorting and wheezing with the cold and the fashionably glum look about them all.
Still snowing. So beautiful and life-affirming in a way. Beautiful but dangerous.
God, I hope it won't stop Her coming today!
It's Friday. She always comes on Friday. My only respite from the drudgery of the week.
Sometimes I hear Her first. I tingle all over, starting with the back of my neck. Breathing gets deeper, yet quicker and my hands begin to sweat.
That 'Tik-Tak' sound of Her heels, reminiscent of something in my head...like a regal clicking of Her fingers when requiring attention; impossible to ignore.
I follow the sound of Her shoes as She rounds the corner, past the stack of shopping baskets and into the store, not 20 feet away from me.
I am captivated. Can't look away from Her. In all my years, I have never known a woman who could completely dominate my every thought just by 'being'.
She must come. She has to.
I hand a woman her receipt and points card and mumble the required pleasantry as the next glum individual shuffles forward.
Then, all is forgotten.
Store etiquette abondoned as I hear Her. It's Her!
Unmistakably my Friday morning shot of neat sunshine.
Moving this way, purposefully yet unhurried. 'Click-click-click-click'- I recognise Her pace - precise, almost hypnotically metronomic and once again, I feel myself slipping into a waking trance.
How does She do that? Why do I respond in such a way?
Then, She comes into my line of view. Heart melts, the hairs on my arms feel electrically charged and my breathing is too fast.
A flash of green eyes, faint hint of a smile...and She is lost. Basket over Her arm, long black leather coat which draws eyes and lingering looks rather than reflecting them and amplifies and enhances the blonde of Her hair. The flash of silver on Her fabulous stiletto heels. What a woman!
I spend interminable time looking for Her, listening, not concentrating and fumbling ridiculously with people's money and debit cards.
Sometimes She comes to my checkout. I am crushed when She does not. She knows Her power.
No words are spoken. Just a slight smile and look of knowing on Her pretty features. Moves like a cat; sublimely elegant yet there is a real strength here with something else underlying; an energy, like a live-wire seldom seen or felt around here.
I catch an occassional flash of the deepest green eyes that will haunt my dreams tonight, with a longing I don't understand. Yes, She is fabulous, but there is something more. Deeper, inexorable.
And I can see, reflected in the cold steel of the neighbouring checkout those beautiful shoes and just a glimpse of seamed stocking hugging a smooth calf and shapely ankle.
Her scent, I draw as deeply into my lungs as I can, as I almost sob at Her closeness. "Obsession"; truly apt if not ironic in this situation.
Then, She is gone. A soft polite "Thank you", a last brief flash of green eyes and I am left alone here, as so much flotsam in a sea of mediocrity and apathy.
Who is She? This sublime Lady, so close yet so out of reach.
This Lady who, like the snow is both beautiful and tantalisingly dangerous; life-affirming, yet filling me with such feelings of loss every time She goes.
My Lady awakens the realisation of the beauty of each and every second; the perfection of the universe in every moment. The movement of eternity, contained in the sound of those clicking heels.
My ray of sunshine. My brush with glamour. My spark of potential happiness. My reason for Friday's.
micamino )0(;-/ xxxx
It's relentlessly unrelenting.
A tide of colourless humanity, with their predictable items; the economy tea, a copy of "OK" or "Hello" and their dishevelled clothes, lank hair and the modern look of defeat all over their sallow faces.
I glance out through the plate glass windows, past the trolleys, the coin machine and green and white bags and the herd of shuffling people, snorting and wheezing with the cold and the fashionably glum look about them all.
Still snowing. So beautiful and life-affirming in a way. Beautiful but dangerous.
God, I hope it won't stop Her coming today!
It's Friday. She always comes on Friday. My only respite from the drudgery of the week.
Sometimes I hear Her first. I tingle all over, starting with the back of my neck. Breathing gets deeper, yet quicker and my hands begin to sweat.
That 'Tik-Tak' sound of Her heels, reminiscent of something in my head...like a regal clicking of Her fingers when requiring attention; impossible to ignore.
I follow the sound of Her shoes as She rounds the corner, past the stack of shopping baskets and into the store, not 20 feet away from me.
I am captivated. Can't look away from Her. In all my years, I have never known a woman who could completely dominate my every thought just by 'being'.
She must come. She has to.
I hand a woman her receipt and points card and mumble the required pleasantry as the next glum individual shuffles forward.
Then, all is forgotten.
Store etiquette abondoned as I hear Her. It's Her!
Unmistakably my Friday morning shot of neat sunshine.
Moving this way, purposefully yet unhurried. 'Click-click-click-click'- I recognise Her pace - precise, almost hypnotically metronomic and once again, I feel myself slipping into a waking trance.
How does She do that? Why do I respond in such a way?
Then, She comes into my line of view. Heart melts, the hairs on my arms feel electrically charged and my breathing is too fast.
A flash of green eyes, faint hint of a smile...and She is lost. Basket over Her arm, long black leather coat which draws eyes and lingering looks rather than reflecting them and amplifies and enhances the blonde of Her hair. The flash of silver on Her fabulous stiletto heels. What a woman!
I spend interminable time looking for Her, listening, not concentrating and fumbling ridiculously with people's money and debit cards.
Sometimes She comes to my checkout. I am crushed when She does not. She knows Her power.
No words are spoken. Just a slight smile and look of knowing on Her pretty features. Moves like a cat; sublimely elegant yet there is a real strength here with something else underlying; an energy, like a live-wire seldom seen or felt around here.
I catch an occassional flash of the deepest green eyes that will haunt my dreams tonight, with a longing I don't understand. Yes, She is fabulous, but there is something more. Deeper, inexorable.
And I can see, reflected in the cold steel of the neighbouring checkout those beautiful shoes and just a glimpse of seamed stocking hugging a smooth calf and shapely ankle.
Her scent, I draw as deeply into my lungs as I can, as I almost sob at Her closeness. "Obsession"; truly apt if not ironic in this situation.
Then, She is gone. A soft polite "Thank you", a last brief flash of green eyes and I am left alone here, as so much flotsam in a sea of mediocrity and apathy.
Who is She? This sublime Lady, so close yet so out of reach.
This Lady who, like the snow is both beautiful and tantalisingly dangerous; life-affirming, yet filling me with such feelings of loss every time She goes.
My Lady awakens the realisation of the beauty of each and every second; the perfection of the universe in every moment. The movement of eternity, contained in the sound of those clicking heels.
My ray of sunshine. My brush with glamour. My spark of potential happiness. My reason for Friday's.
micamino )0(;-/ xxxx
Thursday, 21 June 2012
"No Ordinary Commuter"
Would that I could sit opposite Mistress on Her train ride to where the streets are paved with gold. Observe Her in the vanilla world, where I used to be trapped, away from the comforting shadow and light of My Lady's chambers.
Does a Goddess stand out from the crowd? How does such a woman blend in with the grey 'normality' of life?
I would gaze for awhile into the thoughtful, mysterious green of eyes deeper than an ocean of tears. Those perfect, aristocratic cheekbones. That slight knowing smile of self-awareness. This is a woman of depth; of substance.
Down, down my gaze is drawn, over soft womanly curves, all the way down to where a floaty summer dress reveals shapely thighs. Legs crossed and I cannot look away. That curve from knee to ankle, once more holds me entranced; catching my breath.
Does anybody else notice the soft sheen of silk in the warm, fragrant light that surrounds Her and the soft sigh of stockings as She slowly, elegantly crosses Her legs?
And what of our carriage-mates? Men hiding behind 'The Financial Times' or the latest offering from Waterstones', trying to catch a glimpse of the most exciting woman they are ever likely to meet? Perhaps the odd brave or brash one; a young pretender who tries to catch My Lady's eye.
And the women on board. A stern once-over, or a casual glance? Barely concealing envy at Your natural poise, glamour and air of calm sensuality.
Some want to be You. Perhaps some with You. Sometimes one will get a spark from You and realise what latent power she too may possess...
Do You blend in, chamaeleon-like when required? or is Your vibrant sensuality constantly simmering under that flimsy material? A barely suppressed sexuality, like a beauteous garden in May where Mother Nature could never, thankfully, be tamed?
How many here would ever imagine that amongst them sits the Perfect Lady; the consumate Dominatrix? And that just the other morning, the adoring submissive now sitting opposite, gave You freely the power over his life or death, taking away his breath, yet breathing life into his very being. The position of ultimate control over another.
And of the ones who watch You, dreamily, as You move poetically, heels clicking across the railway station platform this morning, how many long to be with You; to be under Your spell, or to be under Your heels?
How many sit blankly at their desks, unable to concentrate after being near You, having been deeply affected by You?
Your heady presence which lingers like a favourite dream...
MiCamino )0(;-/
Does a Goddess stand out from the crowd? How does such a woman blend in with the grey 'normality' of life?
I would gaze for awhile into the thoughtful, mysterious green of eyes deeper than an ocean of tears. Those perfect, aristocratic cheekbones. That slight knowing smile of self-awareness. This is a woman of depth; of substance.
Down, down my gaze is drawn, over soft womanly curves, all the way down to where a floaty summer dress reveals shapely thighs. Legs crossed and I cannot look away. That curve from knee to ankle, once more holds me entranced; catching my breath.
Does anybody else notice the soft sheen of silk in the warm, fragrant light that surrounds Her and the soft sigh of stockings as She slowly, elegantly crosses Her legs?
And what of our carriage-mates? Men hiding behind 'The Financial Times' or the latest offering from Waterstones', trying to catch a glimpse of the most exciting woman they are ever likely to meet? Perhaps the odd brave or brash one; a young pretender who tries to catch My Lady's eye.
And the women on board. A stern once-over, or a casual glance? Barely concealing envy at Your natural poise, glamour and air of calm sensuality.
Some want to be You. Perhaps some with You. Sometimes one will get a spark from You and realise what latent power she too may possess...
Do You blend in, chamaeleon-like when required? or is Your vibrant sensuality constantly simmering under that flimsy material? A barely suppressed sexuality, like a beauteous garden in May where Mother Nature could never, thankfully, be tamed?
How many here would ever imagine that amongst them sits the Perfect Lady; the consumate Dominatrix? And that just the other morning, the adoring submissive now sitting opposite, gave You freely the power over his life or death, taking away his breath, yet breathing life into his very being. The position of ultimate control over another.
And of the ones who watch You, dreamily, as You move poetically, heels clicking across the railway station platform this morning, how many long to be with You; to be under Your spell, or to be under Your heels?
How many sit blankly at their desks, unable to concentrate after being near You, having been deeply affected by You?
Your heady presence which lingers like a favourite dream...
MiCamino )0(;-/
Tuesday, 15 May 2012
Brightest Light
Who is She?
This sublime Lady of the nighttime of my soul.
She who holds court over dreams,
Dominion over every fantasy.
Otherworldly, She shimmers through the vanilla
dimension on a breeze of pure glamour.
She, the bright light, the flame that draws the
dazzled moth; one here who used to be cocooned
and grounded, aware only of cold autumn leaves
and grey skies, until transformed forever by Her touch;
the death before the re-birth into warm fragrant spring,
on gossamer wings, so fragile, yet destined
ever to be drawn to Her fire.
Who is She?
One who causes sleepless nights and fevered brow,
secret smiles and quiet contemplation.
Should i stop trying to make sense of Her,
wondering what makes Her tick, or why
She brings such intense pleasure through pain?
Perhaps She just 'IS'.
My Dear Beautiful enigma,
Captor of my imagination,
sweet Lady of my twilight dreams,
liberator of my spirit;
keeper of my soul...
MiCamino
This sublime Lady of the nighttime of my soul.
She who holds court over dreams,
Dominion over every fantasy.
Otherworldly, She shimmers through the vanilla
dimension on a breeze of pure glamour.
She, the bright light, the flame that draws the
dazzled moth; one here who used to be cocooned
and grounded, aware only of cold autumn leaves
and grey skies, until transformed forever by Her touch;
the death before the re-birth into warm fragrant spring,
on gossamer wings, so fragile, yet destined
ever to be drawn to Her fire.
Who is She?
One who causes sleepless nights and fevered brow,
secret smiles and quiet contemplation.
Should i stop trying to make sense of Her,
wondering what makes Her tick, or why
She brings such intense pleasure through pain?
Perhaps She just 'IS'.
My Dear Beautiful enigma,
Captor of my imagination,
sweet Lady of my twilight dreams,
liberator of my spirit;
keeper of my soul...
MiCamino
"Where Are You?"
Friends often find me distant,
in arguments defer.
They wonder where i am these days,
of course! i am with Her.
They wish to know the places
my mind goes off to roam,
shut out from a vanilla world
where i never feel at home.
"Tell us what you're thinking!"
i smile, but won't confer.
look deep into my eyes, my friends
i'm dancing there with Her.
MiCamino
in arguments defer.
They wonder where i am these days,
of course! i am with Her.
They wish to know the places
my mind goes off to roam,
shut out from a vanilla world
where i never feel at home.
"Tell us what you're thinking!"
i smile, but won't confer.
look deep into my eyes, my friends
i'm dancing there with Her.
MiCamino
Wednesday, 9 May 2012
"Spilled Coffee"
Sitting alone, still and quiet, looking out through the glass wall,
sipping a tall coffee, atop a tall chair, completely unaware of the hustle and bustle, the clattering and the chattering, the bags and the shopping, the mobile phones and the screaming kids.
Feeling distinctly removed and out of place as usual, he sips his latte and his eyes trace the inevitable progress of another rain drop as it meanders down the pane; like a tear oftentimes rolls down his cheek in an afterglow moment with his beloved Mistress. If eyes are the window on the soul, what are tears?
The cleansing rain that washes away all the hurt and dirt from his usual world, perhaps.
However cold and grey outside, inside is a warm glow whenever thinking of Her.
Rain falls harder, umbrella's now and countless people flood past, hurrying, faceless, grey and he wonders if there is any colour left in the world.
He starts! Hot coffee splashes a hand. Pulses racing; heart thumping against his chest.
As if in slow-motion, a passing glimpse of blonde hair, long black leather coat, accentuating rather than concealing dangerous curves, the flash of silver from stiletto heels clicking unhurriedly along the wet pavement; a sound reminiscent of Her clicking fingers, beckoning, demanding, and, he fancies there is a faint shimmer in the air around Her - a sparkling brilliance, temporarily blinding him, amid the ocean of charcoal and sepia.
Wide eyed, he grabs his coat, spilling the rest of the coffee in the process. Chair scrapes deafeningly, indignant yells chase after him as a dripping couple in a queue are forced unceremoniously out of his way as he crashes through the mayhem and out the door, into the deluge of rain and unrelenting monochrome.
She is gone. No sign of Her having passed by.
He stands for several minutes in the pouring rain, wondering...wondering...
The world is once again colourless. Tasteless. Vanilla.
MiCamino )0(;-/
sipping a tall coffee, atop a tall chair, completely unaware of the hustle and bustle, the clattering and the chattering, the bags and the shopping, the mobile phones and the screaming kids.
Feeling distinctly removed and out of place as usual, he sips his latte and his eyes trace the inevitable progress of another rain drop as it meanders down the pane; like a tear oftentimes rolls down his cheek in an afterglow moment with his beloved Mistress. If eyes are the window on the soul, what are tears?
The cleansing rain that washes away all the hurt and dirt from his usual world, perhaps.
However cold and grey outside, inside is a warm glow whenever thinking of Her.
Rain falls harder, umbrella's now and countless people flood past, hurrying, faceless, grey and he wonders if there is any colour left in the world.
He starts! Hot coffee splashes a hand. Pulses racing; heart thumping against his chest.
As if in slow-motion, a passing glimpse of blonde hair, long black leather coat, accentuating rather than concealing dangerous curves, the flash of silver from stiletto heels clicking unhurriedly along the wet pavement; a sound reminiscent of Her clicking fingers, beckoning, demanding, and, he fancies there is a faint shimmer in the air around Her - a sparkling brilliance, temporarily blinding him, amid the ocean of charcoal and sepia.
Wide eyed, he grabs his coat, spilling the rest of the coffee in the process. Chair scrapes deafeningly, indignant yells chase after him as a dripping couple in a queue are forced unceremoniously out of his way as he crashes through the mayhem and out the door, into the deluge of rain and unrelenting monochrome.
She is gone. No sign of Her having passed by.
He stands for several minutes in the pouring rain, wondering...wondering...
The world is once again colourless. Tasteless. Vanilla.
MiCamino )0(;-/
Wednesday, 25 April 2012
When She is far away...
There is a Lady, fair of face
with golden hair and full of grace,
of beauty, wit, intelligence,
endowed with perfect elegance.
She's in my thoughts, all hours, all day
although a deep blue sea away.
Across ocean, land and skies above
I send Her my thoughts of friendship and love
and if with work She ever feels bored
I hope She knows how much She's adored.
micamino
with golden hair and full of grace,
of beauty, wit, intelligence,
endowed with perfect elegance.
She's in my thoughts, all hours, all day
although a deep blue sea away.
Across ocean, land and skies above
I send Her my thoughts of friendship and love
and if with work She ever feels bored
I hope She knows how much She's adored.
micamino
To my own" Lady of the Woods"
Enchanting and beautiful, adored by many,
She's special and secret, discovered by the lucky.
Inspiring such feelings of wonder and delight,
as i catch my first glimpse, through dappled sunlight.
Some want to take Her away, just for them
while others may shout of Her; boastful men.
Some would give all, to have Her to keep,
still more are content to kneel at Her feet.
For me She brings yearning and burning desire
which tempered with love, enriches the fire.
Beguiling and lovely, intense and unique,
I know now I've found Her, I'll never be free.
micamino
She's special and secret, discovered by the lucky.
Inspiring such feelings of wonder and delight,
as i catch my first glimpse, through dappled sunlight.
Some want to take Her away, just for them
while others may shout of Her; boastful men.
Some would give all, to have Her to keep,
still more are content to kneel at Her feet.
For me She brings yearning and burning desire
which tempered with love, enriches the fire.
Beguiling and lovely, intense and unique,
I know now I've found Her, I'll never be free.
micamino
The Universal Shackle
Flickering flames, a scented garden
bathed in cool, feminine moon-glow.
Face flecked with hot dancing firelight,
contemplating beauty and experience;
the minutia and the cosmos.
Fingertips absently touch cheekbones,
remembrance of a recent morning.
A secret smile.
Gaze drawn upwards to such aching beauty,
the all-encompassing milky way.
A lunar shackle encircling his whole world.
Heaven unfolds and he willingly submits;
smothering, surrounding all senses
leaving him gasping for air, in this
glittering infinity of pain and pleasure.
A secret place.
A glimmer of reflected silver
from his own gift of steel, draws him back.
How indivisible; the panacea of the Universe
and the unfolding of his life...
As the Earth is gladly enveloped by the Heavens,
with Mistress alone, he discovers
his own sweet heaven.
A secret love.
micamino
bathed in cool, feminine moon-glow.
Face flecked with hot dancing firelight,
contemplating beauty and experience;
the minutia and the cosmos.
Fingertips absently touch cheekbones,
remembrance of a recent morning.
A secret smile.
Gaze drawn upwards to such aching beauty,
the all-encompassing milky way.
A lunar shackle encircling his whole world.
Heaven unfolds and he willingly submits;
smothering, surrounding all senses
leaving him gasping for air, in this
glittering infinity of pain and pleasure.
A secret place.
A glimmer of reflected silver
from his own gift of steel, draws him back.
How indivisible; the panacea of the Universe
and the unfolding of his life...
As the Earth is gladly enveloped by the Heavens,
with Mistress alone, he discovers
his own sweet heaven.
A secret love.
micamino
"Curve Theory"
Mathematicians have their angles,
scientists their formulas,
zealots have their dogma's,
but only one theory matters:
On my knees before My Lady, I all shoulders, flanks and back,
She is all poise, glamour and elegance.
Head bowed, Her scent my oxygen.
She sits atop Her throne; my Queen
cheekbones haughty, eyes sparkle in the warm half-light,
legs crossed inches from my face, such refinement; so alluring.
I am hypnotized by the perfect curve,
the graceful contour in front of me, sheathed in feminine silk.
Enraptured. Held fascinated. In awe,
as a tiny vein flickers rhythmically, inside ankle
and barely perceptible above Her shoe:
The pulse of my universe.
That curve of Her shin! from Her knee to Her ankle,
framed by elegant calf muscles.
Above, a dark band of silk nestles against soft, fair skin.
Below, five inches of sublime, sharp heels.
Mesmerized. Lost in wonder at Her perfection.
The way Her foot sits gracefully in the cradle of Her shoe
as She sits petite, yet statuesque, real, yet magical
in stilettos to die for; or to die under.
Heels, which lengthen her legs far enough
to drive me almost to madness.
The most beauteous shape, the perfect angle.
The Curve.
Shiny hard blackness of Her shoe, next to smooth feminine silk
and behind, warm soft skin; The Trinity. Art. Life. Dreams.
My only belief at this moment?
"Curve Theory"
MiCamino
scientists their formulas,
zealots have their dogma's,
but only one theory matters:
On my knees before My Lady, I all shoulders, flanks and back,
She is all poise, glamour and elegance.
Head bowed, Her scent my oxygen.
She sits atop Her throne; my Queen
cheekbones haughty, eyes sparkle in the warm half-light,
legs crossed inches from my face, such refinement; so alluring.
I am hypnotized by the perfect curve,
the graceful contour in front of me, sheathed in feminine silk.
Enraptured. Held fascinated. In awe,
as a tiny vein flickers rhythmically, inside ankle
and barely perceptible above Her shoe:
The pulse of my universe.
That curve of Her shin! from Her knee to Her ankle,
framed by elegant calf muscles.
Above, a dark band of silk nestles against soft, fair skin.
Below, five inches of sublime, sharp heels.
Mesmerized. Lost in wonder at Her perfection.
The way Her foot sits gracefully in the cradle of Her shoe
as She sits petite, yet statuesque, real, yet magical
in stilettos to die for; or to die under.
Heels, which lengthen her legs far enough
to drive me almost to madness.
The most beauteous shape, the perfect angle.
The Curve.
Shiny hard blackness of Her shoe, next to smooth feminine silk
and behind, warm soft skin; The Trinity. Art. Life. Dreams.
My only belief at this moment?
"Curve Theory"
MiCamino
"All of my dreams"
I long to be with You, My Lady, my Love;
Warmer and brighter than Venus above.
You lighten my heart and dazzle my eyes,
like warm summer lightning blazing through skies.
My alpha, my Mistress, my own guiding light,
You're smooth silk on skin; sheer delight.
You make me smile and sometimes to cry,
those pretty green eyes elicit such sighs.
My dewdrop on snowdrop, my first ray of spring,
You waken my spirit; my soul needs to sing.
So happy to know You, my captor, my Queen,
my keeper of secrets and all of my dreams.
)0(;-/ MiCamino
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