Flowers for my Master

My Master is a worthy man. A great and a good man. He is kind and thoughtful. He is demanding but fair. That I be exemplary in his name is all he asks. When I fail he lifts me back up. Should I falter, he is there to put me back in my place. He teaches me things so that I can be successful. He places great trust in me and I widen myself to meet his expectations.

The Master is a cruel man. A nasty and brutish man. He is quick to anger and quicker to condemn. He delights in every shuddered breath and piercing scream. He does not indulge. He commands. The Master rips and snarls and sneers. He does not ask. He poses hypotheticals. He teases, but only in choices of the macabre.

My Master considers things. He will take a problem and chew for hours. Then he will attack it every single way he knows how to do until it is solved. He allows me to escape into his worlds. He structures my days and makes events a celebration of life. My Master indulges me when I please him.

The Master destroys things. He will take something he loves and beat it for hours. Then he will call it pathetic and lazy and worthless. He drags me back from escaping his hell. Day or night has no meaning as time stands still in his presence. There is no pleasing the Master.

I love every inch of him.