The Faces of Eve

There are two women in my life now; they are diametrically opposed. They never converge, not even in dark alleyways on lazy shiftless nights. 

I instruct Jessica (not her real name),  a petite, fiery brunette with green eyes, to buy lace panties and bra to wear for me.  She asks me what else I want from her. She does anything I demand and waits patiently for my permission.

On the weekends, there is Dominique (not her real name)- a tall, thick, smoked brown business executive. She calls me her princess, refuses to let me pay for dinner, or drive. She tells me exactly what I should do, and I happily oblige.

I'm experiencing some cognitive dissonance. Do I spank or lie still?  Grab hair or go to my knees?

I can handle this, I tell myself. The tugging. The splitting of time. The role switching. The demands for my undivided attention.

I cannot choose one or the other, for neither is complete. Then the realization hits like bricks, I've subconsciously conjured up this situation, because these two women are the two faces of me.

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