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Posted

Tension. I kneel on the bed,

My eyes kept firmly downcast,

As you lay out implements in a

line. Choose, you say. With

trembling finger, I point to the

flogger. Purple and black, soft

suede strands. A toy that can sting

or stroke. You give a small huff

of laughter, and remove the flogger

from the line up. I glance up,

surprised, and catch a glimpse at

your amused smirk before you raise

an unimpressed eyebrow. Eyes.

It’s a command, spat out with

displeasure. I don’t have permission

to look at you. I’m sorry, Sir. My

words are a mumble. A whisper.

You make me wait, leave the

Possibility of punishment

hovering for an endless moment,

then tell me, choose again. I

understand the game now, I think.

I point to the cane. My least

favorite of all of your tools. Two

more, you say. I pick the vampire

paddle – something new I haven’t

yet been brace enough to try – and

the dragon’s tongue, that I know

feels like fire. Good girl. I bask

in that for an instant before

the rest of the toys disappear.

Outmaneuvered. I should have

known: the rules can change.

I hear you chuckle as I keep my eyes

off your face and on my future.

My pulse thuds in my chest, and in

my cunt.

Posted
Anticipation during strict obedience is hard to handle.
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