The Rings of Slattern by Rose B. Thorny

She never tidies, unable to grasp the importance of it.

I stare at the indelible rings marring the surface of the exquisite coffee table.  It will have to go.

Her surface, though, is perfect—the right height; colouring, all aspects, exactly what pleases me; flawless skin; slender without being bony, yet plump where it counts, breasts and buttocks full, luscious.

Superficial perfection conceals proclivities aimed, seemingly, to provoke me. My endeavours to convince her that order is superior to chaos goad her into tearing at the fabric that binds us. She litters my space with clutter as quickly as I whisk up the crumbs of her casual habits.  She tries to weaken my resolve to maintain structure. She wants me to cave, to embrace her erratic style, allowing disarray to rule.

A profound dilemma: I want her, but not her mess.

* * *

It pained me, but the table is gone.

Not painful is my solution.  Confined to the spartan cell, her unblemished curves and hollows remain at my disposal. Mealtimes, I strap her into the chair.  She learned quickly that spitting out food results in no food at all. I hold the cup she sips from.

No stains here.

Copyright © 2018 Rose B. Thorny. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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