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A story to set the tone

Before I get into writing my thoughts, here's a fantasy/story I wrote years ago.

IMPORTANT NOTE: Real-life power-exchange/BDSM interactions like the one in this story should never be carried out in anger, in shame, or in any other negative emotion. When things get rough, verbally or physically, it should always come from a positive place, such as admiration, respect, worship, or simple desire to please. And CONSENT is paramount. Each party's consent must be explicit (at the time or beforehand), clear, specific, voluntary, and reversible/withdrawable at any time. If either party is feeling uncertainty or negative emotions, it's time for calm verbal conversation. Rough time is play time. Thus, as much as I real-life admire, adore, appreciate, respect, and covet submissive young women, the combination of emotion and physicality in this story is a fantasy.

    You're sitting on the couch reading a book and listening to music. It's about time for me to arrive home from work. You're dressed in a tight short skirt over black nylon tights and a low-cut tight top with lacy fringe. And to top this pleasing-my-Lord sundae of an outfit with a cherry that you know will weaken my knees (and my will), you've tied your hair back into a high ponytail, which just happens to also expose your neck. Soon you hear me unlocking the door. You quickly change the music to Sheila Chandra, knowing she relaxes me. You then hurry to the door to greet me. I enter, closing the door behind me. Once I'm inside, the first thing I see is you standing before me. My whole being feels lighter. Your eyes beaming up at me will always be among the most beautiful things in the world. I love how you make sure that you're the first thing I experience the moment I'm home.
    “Hello, my pet.”
    “Hello, my Lord. Welcome home.”
    “Thank you, sweet girl.”

    You can hear in my voice and see in my face that I am genuinely and consciously thankful. It's something you detect often in me, and it never fails to give you butterflies. You take my briefcase and my coat, and you put them away. You then do the same with my suit jacket. I stand still, admiring your service as my heart swells. You return to me once more and throw your arms around me to hug me tightly. It feels so damn good to be wrapped up in you. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. My body inflates so much that you have to loosen your hold on me, but you know this means I am drinking life in, stopping my mind to focus on the present moment because the present moment is filled with something wonderful. You love it when I do that in response to you. Damn, you smell good. Your favorite scent has become my favorite scent. You feel my arms coil tightly around you, and we stand frozen for long moments.

    “Let's sit down, my girl.” You respond with your patented languid, pouty, throaty purr-protest. “Please, angel, I know I'm irresistible, but I'd really like to sit down.” You look up at me and raise one eyebrow in a sarcastic expression. “Don't you pull the eyebrow thing on me...” I say, but you can see me melting. You scrunch up your nose at me, another tool in your dismantling-my-Lord's- resistance toolbox. I smile and shake my head slightly in awe of you, of your melting effect on me. You know how much I would do for you if called upon to do it, and that thought always makes you feel amazed.

    You reluctantly release me from your embrace, but as your arms slide off of me, one of your hands picks up one of mine. You lead me to the living room. I follow gladly, my eyes brushing admiringly over drawings and paintings by you that I have framed and hung, images of anime characters and other things you enjoy. I'll never stop admiring your ability to make art like that. My eyes move on to see, with no surprise, that you have tidied, and I am thankful once again. Gone are the dishes from the night-time snack we enjoyed while we watched your favorite movie (one of Guillermo del Toro's artsy, weird, monstery, non-big-ticket movies; I love that you love that film). Gone are the clothes we left behind after we made love on the couch (we were naked and wrapped in each other before the closing credits rolled) then moved to the bed to sleep next to each other. And gone are the mug from my hot morning coffee and the tall glass from your morning iced coffee (both made lovingly by you before I left for work).

    You sit me down in a soft arm chair, and you walk around the chair to stand behind me, trailing your fingers from my hand up my arm to my neck. You rub my shoulders, and feel tension drain out of me. A luscious hum of pleasure escapes my throat, and you smile broadly to yourself. You feel as if everything is perfect whenever you are able to show me how much you appreciate me.
“That's my girl,” I murmur dreamily, “My little monster girl...” Your heart swells inside you. My head lolls forward as I really settle into the pleasure of you.

    BUZZ! We're interrupted rudely by your phone vibrating on the coffee table. You dart to the table to hastily grab your phone and silence it. It's a message from your ex. Not just any ex. From your evil, hurtful ex. The guy after whom I have had to clean up, when he has left you sobbing with his idiotic verbal abuse. You start on your way back to continue the massage, glancing furtively at my face. But not furtively enough.

    “Stop.” I command. You stop and beam your cute-ray face at me. But fear grips your stomach with an icy, bony hand. “What's wrong?” I ask, frowning and staring directly into your eyes, entirely unaffected by your usually-effective cuteness.
    “Wrong? Why?” you ask, not lying but also not answering.
    “Tell me right now.” You know I won't play around or let you off. You like how that shows my concern for you, but you dislike how it means I never steer around rough waters.
    “My Lord, can we just sit and relax for a--”
    “Tell me.” You cut off your words and stare down at the floor, unable to answer or move. You can't bring yourself to say it. “He contacted you, didn't he?” You don't answer. I stand up in front of you. “Fuck,” I curse. You look off to the side, out the window, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but here. You know I'm upset with you, and you feel tiny, worthless. You want to wither and disappear. I look directly at you. You can't bear to return my glare. I grab your chin roughly and turn your face toward mine. But you still won't return my gaze. “Look at me.” 

    You know there's no point in delaying; we're headed directly and inevitably into raging rapids. Yet you remain frozen. My hand moves from your chin to your ponytail. I pull down on it hard to angle your head up toward me. “Look. At. Me.” Panic breaks you out of paralysis, and you look up at me with naked fear. You see smoldering coals in my eyes. You turn ice-cold all over. After a long moment, I pursue the matter: “And you wrote him back.” It now takes all your strength not to shift your eyes away from mine. All of your muscles are tensing. You want to become invisible. After another pause, I exclaim “Damn it!” 

    I drop my hand from your hair. Now it's my turn to look away, out the window. You can see me working very hard to stay calm and controlled. You stare at me, fidgeting with your fingernails. “I don't need to go over this with you.” Your heart does a tiny jump, as you grasp at the possibility that I won't actually go down this thorny path. But then you see me drawing myself up iron-rod straight, and you know that “go over this with you” is exactly what I'm about to do. Your jaw clenches.
    “I ordered you not to read his messages. I ordered you not to ever contact him, for any reason. ... You know you're allowed to contact and chat with whomever you like. You can even meet with new people after I've approved them. But you know that you cannot contact him.” The disgusted disdain in my voice turns the air in the whole room sour. “You are mine. You know that. I am very generous with you. I want you to be happy, to grow, to be free, to thrive. But you are mine. You belong to me, and you do what I say. You do not do what I forbid. How hard is this to grasp? How hard is this to do? I say 'Don't do it,' so you don't do it!” Oh god you hate these lectures. This is only the second or third time you've received one, but you still know they're excruciating. You feel so incredibly small. 

    And yet... a part of you loves this. A part of you is soaking it in. A part of you—perhaps not the best part of you, but a part of you just the same—perversely swoons when you see my fury mount over you. Yes, you think as you stare and nod, I am yours. So, so, so incredibly yours. “This guy,” I step away from you as I get more and more wound up, “he somehow has the power to harm what is mine. And yet he is nothing. Nothing. He is a flea. A speck of mud on my shoe. A pointless cretin. And yet...” I pause. Oh god, you think, here it comes. “And yet my pet wastes her time and energy on him!” Oh, I'm really furious now. You really, really want this to be over. And yet you're still undeniably thrilled that you... you... you matter so much to me. I keep lecturing:
    “This is not a worthy man who has something to offer you. You know I'd be fine with that. What does he offer you? Pain! Suffering! He harms what I own. This, this... this scrap of garbage. How?”
    Another pause. “I'm sorry, my Lord.”
“I know you are.” It really stings you when I stop using affectionate pet names for you. I step back toward you and grasp your chin again, even more roughly. Your eyes wince, and yet... you get a bit wet between your legs. You steel yourself and look directly into my eyes. You startle a bit. The coals are gone. Now my eyes are alight with raging flames. “The bedroom.”
    “My Lord?”
    “Go to the bedroom. Now.”
    “But my Lord can I just tell you what I--” I cut you off by squeezing your chin so hard it hurts.
    “Yes, my Lord.” I release my grip. You turn around and walk directly to the bedroom, and I follow directly after you. Your heart is pounding, trying to ram its way out of your chest. The bedroom... that can only mean...You're so scared. And yet, you're also getting even more aroused. How does he do this to me? you ask yourself sternly. 

    In the bedroom, I close the door behind us. You turn around to face me. I untie my tie and remove it, unbuttoning the top button of my shirt. Your dread mounts; removing my tie is normally your job. Now paying you no attention, I fold my tie meticulously and place it on the dresser. I do not, however, remove my cufflinks. Will he get me to do that? Or will he just leave them on? He always takes them out when he removes his shirt... You're frantically searching for a clue—any clue—as to what I'm thinking, what I'm going to do. You scan me all over during this brief moment when my attention isn't focused entirely on you. Is that a bulge in his pants?
    I command you: “Take off your clothes.”
    “You heard me. Take them off.” You're not sure which clothing I'm referring to, so you start undressing, expecting that I'll stop you if I want to. But this feels wrong. You know that one of my favorite things is to watch you undress. You've come to love undressing for me, to love watching me watch you. Of course, sometimes I undress you, which you also love... But this, this is not the same. This is cold, clinical, detached, almost—but not quite—humiliating. I watch with a stonefaced patience, revealing nothing in my face or body language. Except that I'm always staring at you, my eyes never leaving your body. You understand that my focus has shifted from your crime to your punishment. You feel momentarily dizzy—you hope you can get through this.

    Eventually, you're completely naked. You feel exposed, vulnerable, totally unlike how you've come to usually feel when you're naked in my gaze. This time, courage did not drive you to disrobe for me. Fear did. And yet, still, there's that wetness in your pussy. You cross your arms over your ample breasts to hide your hardening nipples.

“Turn around.” No good girl this time. No cooing or coaxing. I'm fully objectifying you now. My attention is fully, completely, and totally on your body. You wish you could escape. And yet you also wish this could last forever. You turn around to face the bed, with your back to me. Now you're really anxious, not being able to see me, to read me, to see any disciplinary action coming... cumming, you think, and shake your minutely to dispel the weirdly out-of-place thought.
    “Bend over.” You pause, processing the implications of my command.” You bend at the waist, placing your arms on the bed for support. Your large breasts hang down on to the bed. Again, this is normally a joyful thing, as I've taught you to courageously overcome your uneasiness with hanging your breasts in this way, like udders, as you say. In truth, your reluctance was easy for you to overcome the first time you saw and heard my absolutely defenceless reaction to that pose: I made myself cum shortly thereafter. But this, this is not a celebration of my lust for you nor of your admiration of my hard cock. This isn't even playful sexual domination. This an entirely different interaction, context, and meaning.

    SLAP! Your heart stops for a microsecond when I spank your naked ass hard. SLAP! Your other cheek. Then a pause. SLAP! SLAP! Again. I'm spanking you so hard that your whole body shakes with each slap. Fuck, it stings so bad. There will definitely be marks. At least you didn't make these marks, which you know I hate. SLAP! SLAP! God, the stinging! And yet, you're relieved that you're being punished so that I can forgive you and you can go back to happily serving me. SLAP! SLAP! Then a long pause. You're going mad in this blindness, unable to see what's coming. Then you hear the short, sharp sound of my fly unzipping. Your thoughts race in a confused panic. You thought I was punishing you with naked humiliation and spanking. But now... well, you didn't get me hard, and you didn't see me get me hard, so—your thoughts freeze: the bulge in his pants. It wasn't huge. It certainly wasn't the size of my fully erect cock, with which you are very familiar.

    Before you can fully grasp the significance of all this, I command you again: “Spread your legs.” You obey, stepping your feet apart. You feel my hand on your pussy, roughly exploring you, spreading you apart with two fingers. I plunge a finger into your tight hole, and I find you slick there. “Hm,” is my only reaction. Then you feel something hard and hot between your legs. My erect cock. Your thoughts race to the conclusion that something must have been arousing me this whole time. You contemplate the possibility that “my heart is overflowing”, as I often put it when I get hard in response to non-sexual interactions with you. Is his heart overflowing right now? Well how else could he have gotten so hard? Your soul sings a little, and the punishment become a bit easier to receive.

    I spend no time savoring you, as I usually do. I don't tease your lips or clit. I just directly thrust into you. I don't stop to enjoy your tight little hole's grip on my rod. I just retract and thrust again, a little harder. Then again, even harder. This continues, mechanically, harder and harder. My silence is the worst part of it. You wonder if I'm even paying attention now. I could be reading a magazine for all you know. Except that I suddenly grasp your hips with both hands to really nail you. The slapping sound of each thrust is loud now. But I'm not fucking you. I'm nailing you. Punishing you. There's no tender affection or raw ecstatic animal release. There's cold thrusting and slapping, and a painfully tight grip on your hips.

    But then, my voice appears, one word at a time, between slapping thrusts: “You. Obey. Me. You. Belong. To me. Never. Disobey. Me.” Your heart is straining now in the knowledge that you've disappointed me, that you've let me down, that I'm not proud of you. Each thrust of my cock into your pussy feels more like a stab of a knife into your heart. Still, you know you brought this on yourself. A tiny voice inside you whispers that maybe if you don't cry, I'll be proud of you for being strong. You make that your goal. But you're so close to crying already...
    Now there's less time between thrusts. I'm picking up speed. I'm shifting from nailing you to truly fucking you. And I'm repeating that last phrase now: “Never. Disobey. Me. Never. Disobey. Me.” My voice is more and more urgent. Soon I'm yelling this command over and over as I'm really having my way with you. You clamp your eyes shut and clench your teeth together. The words are burning into your soul. I know! you scream in your head, I know I disobeyed you! I know! Please! Please forgive me! Please stop punishing me! Please just let me be your pet! Just stop saying it!

    Now I'm fucking you so hard and fast that the words have blurred and disintegrated into the raw grunts of a feral animal. I'm using you. Using your body. I've moved from wanting to discipline you to wanting to make myself get off. My voice is pure beast now, just venting my lust and exertion in staccato growls. But, wait, actually, is it just growls? You listen hard. You think you hear words, repeated softly, muffled and garbled under grunts, but still there. Yes, undeniably there. “i. can't. lose you. i. can't. lose you.”

    Your mind reels. The world seems to flip upside down. You open your eyes to steady yourself, and you oddly feel as if you're floating or even flying. A smile brightens your face. You feel the warmth in your pussy start to spread. It expands down your legs, up through your belly, into your breasts, chest, neck, and shoulders. Your heart seems to explode inside you. You have an overwhelming urge to flip over and wrap your arms around me while I fuck you. I'm not punishing you anymore; I'm holding on to you. I'm holding you to myself. I'm keeping you mine. Your pussy starts to clench autonomically around my thick, hard cock. It's spasming. Oh god... You're cumming.

Ohgodohgodohgod... You can't believe it. It came over you so fast. Now your pussy is radiating light through your whole body, your whole being. And you hear me flat-out roar. My fingers dig into your flesh so hard that they bruise you. I'm frozen as I explode inside you, making you mine, linking you to me. We're cumming together.

Our orgasms subside. I slide myself out of you and put my cock away in my pants. You stay where you are, face stained with tears. I immediately clean you with a cloth and lay you on your side. I quickly remove my shirt—without removing the cufflinks—and lay down next you. I gather you into me and spread a thick blanket over us both. Your head on my chest, I hold you tightly. You're shivering, sobbing into my chest, clawing me into you, wrapping your leg over mine. “I have you, my pet. You're safe with me now. I have you. You're ok.” Eventually, your sobs subside, and you're still, although we're still holding each other tightly.

“My pet?”
“I'm proud of you.” You clearly hear a catch in my voice, and one of my arms leaves momentarily to rub my face. You soul sings again. Your body gradually relaxes. Your breathing becomes deep. As I stroke your hair, you begin to drift off into slumber.
“My Lord?”
“Yes, sweet girl?”
“I love you.”
“I know you do, angel. And I love you.”
You fall asleep, happier than you have ever been.