Poetic Confusion in Prose

I'm feeling a moan here today. Now where's here? Well, darling, wouldn't you crave the knowledge of that particular trivia tidbit?

In all honesty, I'm just confused and dressing it up in pretty chains of poetry. It'll make no more sense with them on than with them off, but it'll certainly look more appealing. (God knows there's a Domina snarling inside me.) It's the smile, I think. But, no, that's not right. Or the eyes - that's quite possible. But, nah. I'm merely searching for excuses and finding none to satisfy my inner cynic, who is insisting, quite adamantly, that it is lust. (I hate it when she's right.)

It's that lazy way that I'm not in charge that does it. I've spent my entire life playing the one in lead, the woman with whip in hand, bored with the man bound by his own hands at my feet. (It's simply no fun if they don't struggle!) The fact that I can't win against him is infuriating. Sure, maybe he'll back down, concede the point, but that's not winning. And then when I try to gain some of my own physically, all games lost verbally, I'm trapped there, too, his hands soft chains on my wrists, like the look I used to imitate. (It's even sexier now than it was then.)

But the ethics of it!!! The ethics are a cold sweat of a nightmare, tangling me in the bedsheets and refusing to relinquish my ankles! I barely know the guy and he barely knows me. Conversation with him is, at times, awkward and unwieldy. I don't feel comfortable with him unless he's touching me. We have little of the big in common, from what I can see. But, then again, how would I know? I don't KNOW anything about him!! All practical aspects of me, save one, is coldly telling me that I am wasting our time. (The one that isn't has been drugged into submission by the word 'sexy'.)

How's that for poetic confusion in prose?