I hear her name in elevated circles.
She has become a local luminary. A ‘must-have’ on the social circuit.
They applaud her, admire her, adore her and want her. She stands out in company as if illuminated by a faithfully following super trouper. She blinds them with her words, her smile, and the elegant prowl of her hips. She entrances them with her conversation.
The art, the music, the theatre, the dance. The wit, the politics, the subtle shift from almost shade to gentle light. The way she dresses, Her elegant, perfect, dangerous desirability. The carefully choreographed revelation of her submissive sexuality to the chosen, the undeserving and the blessed.
When she kneels before them they are enraptured and lost.
She trades it all as if it is who she truly is.
But everything is borrowed, stolen, copied, or faked.
I should know. She was my protégée, my pupil, my ward, my student, my apprentice.
I was her Master. I taught her illusion.
She took everything from me.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Jack Vettriano