I noticed her as soon as she came into my shop, Palm Tree Cards and Gifts of West Florida. She is the kind of woman who is noticed wherever she goes. The curves of her body, the litheness of her movements, and the general aura of her presence all command attention.

            “Do you personalize gifts?” she asked, in a voice that made something deep inside me tremble.

            “Yes,” I replied. “What would you like?”

            “I want to purchase a silver frame for this, and have the frame inscribed,” she answered, taking an envelope from her bag. From the envelope she drew a 5X7 photograph and laid it on the counter. It was a picture of her, taken from behind. She was wearing a tight-fitting black dress and was glancing casually back over her shoulder, so that her lovely face, blond hair, and bewitching green eyes were visible, though partly in shadow. The composition of the picture naturally drew the viewer’s eyes to her shapely ass.

            “We can certainly help you,” I said, loosening my collar in response to a sudden need for more air. “What would you like the inscription to read?”

            “to My kiss ass slave,” she answered. “My should be capitalized. Everything else should be lower case.”

            She returned for her order the next day. I confess I expedited the job in an attempt to impress her, and gift-wrapped the framed picture for free. It was the same impulse that made me ask a prying question I would normally never pose to a customer. I did not know if she would ever come back to the store again, and was desperate to spend a few more moments in her presence.

            “F-forgive my asking,” I stuttered, “but what does the inscription mean?”

            “It is a pet name I gave to one of my admirers,” she replied. “The gift is a kind of… reward.”

            “Do you like it when people kiss your ass?” I asked, driven in part by curiosity, in part by the need to stretch the conversation out longer.

            “I like it when people do as I say,” she said. “I don’t need anyone to ‘kiss my ass,’ at least not in the way people usually mean.”

            “I don’t understand,” I murmured, genuinely confused.

            “’Kissing ass’ generally involves flattery,” she explained. “I can’t really be flattered.”

            “Why can’t you be flattered?” I asked.

            “Because almost any compliment you give Me is almost certainly true. When men try to flatter Me, it is generally a sign that they don’t really know Me. For example, if you told me that My ass is among the most beautiful things you have ever seen, would that be flattery, pet?”

            I blushed bright red. “No,” I admitted. “But what does the name ‘kiss ass slave’ mean, then?”

            “Would you like Me to show you?” she asked.

            I looked around. The shop was empty. I could tell that the question was a loaded one, and I trembled as I answered, but I could not stop myself from saying, “Yes. Yes, please.”

            “Good, pet,” she cooed. “Listen to My voice. It is so soothing, yes? You feel yourself getting sleepy as you listen. As you look into My eyes….”

            My next clear memory is of standing alone in the shop. The clock on the wall showed that an hour had passed since she first came to retrieve her order. She was gone. The only sign that she had really been there was a lingering hint of her perfume in the air and a note written on a sales slip, left on the countertop:

             You’re welcome, pet. Sweet daydreams. ~Goddess Marquesa


            At first I was mystified. Other than having blacked out for an hour, my encounter with Goddess Marquesa did not seem to have had any other effect. But as closing time approached the feelings began. At first they were just images intruding into my mind. Her face. The subtle smile she wore as she said, “I can’t really be flattered.” The memory of her perfume.

            But as time stretched my thoughts of her became more focused, more intense. I felt a deep yearning, similar to the hunger one feels when one has missed a meal or the thirst after long labor in the hot sun. At the heart of this craving was a consuming but hazy desire. I could feel it pressing against every corner of my mind, but I could not nail down just what it was that I so desperately needed.

            The answer came a few days later, when she reappeared in my shop. Four or five customers were browsing the shelves when she entered. I was as shocked as everyone else when I flung myself to my knees at her feet.

            “Please,” I begged, tears coming to my eyes as my voice broke, “let me kiss Your ass, Goddess. I beg You. I need to… I need…”

            “Shhh, pet…,” the Goddess soothed. “Be a good boy for Me. Some day I might let you have what you desire. For now I got you this…”

            She took a framed photo out of her bag. It was the same 5X7 snapshot she had showed me before, set in a black metallic frame.

            “I had to get this from one of your competitors so as not to spoil the surprise,” she explained. “Read the inscription.”

            “to My kiss ass pet,” I intoned. “Thank You, Goddess! But when…when will You let me kiss Your beautiful ass?”

            “Someday,” the Goddess replied. “Meanwhile you will be my good pet, won’t you?”

            “Yes, Goddess!” I cried, oblivious to the strange looks from my other customers. “i am Your good pet. Your kiss-ass pet…”

            My life is so much better now that I am Goddess Marquesa’s slave. As I use the trances acquired from GoddessMarquesa.com, I can feel myself growing and changing in ways I never imagined. But one thing remains constant: since that day I fell to my knees before Her, I have kept Her gift with me always.

I kiss it frequently. The urge to do so is so strong that I sometimes catch myself doing it in front of customers. I know that She may never grant my ultimate wish to kiss Her Divine Ass, but I would rather live in constant yearning than to never have had the chance to adore Her.           

The End