A buzzing noise in your pocket signals someone is trying to reach you. You know exactly who it is. You ignore it. You are done with her. You will never come crawling back to her. Not after what she has done. No. Not this time.

The vibrations against your thigh remind you of the countless times she has used you, abused you, taken advantage of your weakness for her, played with you, cheated on you, hurt you.

At the third vibration, you aggressively shove your hand in your pocket. You grab the phone.

Just check who's calling!

The voice in your head is screaming, yelling. It hurts your ears.

It could be important!

You know better than this. No need to read what the caption on the display reads. However, the voice pointing at this obvious truth slowly fades to a tiny whisper, predominated by the noise of your growing hesitation.

By the fourth vibration you finally take the phone out. Your stomach twitches by the sight of the picture you have associated with that certain caller. Those eyes. Her hair. Her expression. Her warm smile. Making that same picture your wallpaper was not a wise decision either. You knew this from the very beginning. Again, it was a but the tiny whisper of your voice of reason, drowned in the crescendo of the noise of your hesitation.

Fifth vibration. You still stare at her, hesitant. The sickness fills your heart, creeps over your belly.

Don't pick it up! You're done with her! You hate her!

You repeat this line like a mantra.

Sixth vibration. Oops! Your thumb 'accidentally' swiped the 'take call' button. You can just hear the characteristic clicking of the line being cut. She has hung up.

Relieved, you take a deep breath.

The phone vibrates again in your hand. Your heart skips a beat. Not again!

Her familiar face smiles at you. She knows you cannot miss her call. Anyone's yes, but not hers. Not the call of your beloved mistress. She owns you. You are but a slave to her numerous caprices.

You wish so desperately to put all these all too accurately descriptive verbs in past tense, leave her, move on. Yet you keep clinging to her abuse. You cannot move on. You just cannot. There is no way. You feel this need, this urge, this craving for her abuse. You need her as much as the addicts need their methadone; and already the unmistakable signs of withdrawal from her churn up your entrails.

In a burst of pure rage you throw the phone to the wall, shattering the former. You have never felt this kind of impulse before. It feels freeing, liberating. Yet, deep inside, you know perfectly well that this seemingly ultimate act of rebellion against the mistress you are unconditionally in love with is but a ridiculous attempt to break free from her spell.

Still in your act of fuming anger you make up your mind.

With your judgment impaired by renewed bursts of rage, your mind succumbs to the irrational urge to pay a visit to your freshly proclaimed archnemesis.

Still determined to rattle off your hatred-dripping speech and leave her forever, you knock at her door.

Said door flings open. Unable to fight your wrath, you open your mouth. Your voice, nonetheless... fails at the mere sight of her satisfied, knowing smirk. At the very instant you behold her very being you realize that your outbreak is but a minor fit of disobedience by a misbehaving child to the eyes of the patient mother she is to you.

She welcomes you with her warm, motherly embrace. With a few renewed waves, shallow in amplitude – your mind's last rebellion – your inner turmoil makes way for the all too familiar need for submission to her vices. Like the good boy you are, slave to her temptations, you give in to the security of her arms you are once again imprisoned in.

Once more she will take advantage of your weakness, abuse of your inability to resist, possess you, own you. It will not be the last time, you know it; your entire being is fully aware of it, cries out for you not to fall for her again, writhes in the torments of truly sickening reluctance. Alas! Your body is weak, too weak; for too many times have her exquisite ministrations taken you to places you didn't even know existed – a memory you simply fail to shake off.

Too quickly you indulge in the pleasures her mere presence is promising. Too well do you know how short-lived these pleasures are. Too well are you aware of how much you will hate her for the very being she becomes once she demands that you leave – and how much more you will hate yourself for being the weakling you are. Too late the sudden realization of the magnitude of your mistake pierces through the hormone-soaked mist that clouds your judgment; already have you turned to the slave to your need for her abuse, and allowed the vicious spiral of your gradual demise take another turn and crank up a notch.

You lose yourself in the pleasures she is giving you – pleasures others do not even dare to dream of, pleasures you cannot give up. At what cost?

Later, as the mist in your head subsides, you lie in her arms, curled up against her naked body. A lot like waking up from a bad dream, your head is heavy and filled with regret. The arms that hold you give you the feeling of comfort, shelter, motherly love. Yet you know these are solely illusions created by her ruthless abuse of your weakness. Just as well, though, you know you cannot escape the need for her embrace, her feigned motherly love, her mere presence.

As if she senses your silent declaration of defeat, she gently caresses your forehead, and whispers, "Welcome home."