A man needs to know his place.
Sometimes that place is chained to my bed with my fist up their ass.
A client I've met once before came to see me for round two. He said the first time he felt like he'd found a new purpose and he wanted to explore further.
The formalities had been handled weeks ago. His deposit confirmed his sincerity, and this rented space would serve as our temple for the afternoon.
He came prepared, with poppers. An acknowledgment that he'd need a little medicinal encouragement to properly relax and enter a fully subservient state focused entirely on submitting to my commands and experiencing the most intense of sensations.
'May I call you "Mistress"?' he asked.
I told him in no uncertain terms he may not address me at all unless I order him to speak. Only if he needs to communicate his comfort evels via an "orange" or a "red" may he speak out of turn. But if I do order him to speak, then he must address me as "Mistress".
"Understood?"
"Yes, Mistress!"
That is the correct answer.
I began with his face, the sharp crack of my latex gloves against skin bringing the proper colour to his cheeks.
Each slap was a punctuation mark in our silent conversation of power.
His eyes watered, but he didn't flinch away. Actually, he leaned a little into each impact as if collecting my energy through his skin.
Upon my instruction he flipped onto his back.
I cuffed and chained his wrists to his ankles and put a sex wedge under his hips to lift him into position.
Gave him some poppers.
He watched as I coated my fingers in liquid silk, the lube glistening under the dimmed lights.
His body opened to me easily, willingly.
I'd made him douche thoroughly before coming to see me and the water had not only cleaned him but helped to open him up.
The slow, deliberate stretching brought forth sounds of release, of finally being filled in the way he'd always craved.
When he came, his body arched against the restraints.
The spasms that wracked his frame left him spent, vulnerable, and utterly mine.
Afterwards, as his breathing returned to normal, I worked my hands across his tired muscles.
The massage was not kindness but ownership.
Every touch reinforcing that even in his most relaxed state, he belonged to me.
He closed his eyes, a faint smile playing on his lips, already planning his next visit.
His next opportunity to surrender.
Now he knows, the greatest fulfilment he can ever experience comes from absolute submission.