I always come back to gratitude. Specifically about how fun it is to make someone say thank you and mean it while I’m doing something terrible to them.
It starts simple. I make you cum and I tell you to say thank you and you do because that’s easy. That one makes sense. Someone made you feel good, and you express gratitude, that’s just good manners. You don’t even think about it. Thank you. Of course. That felt amazing. Thank you.
But then I have you say it again the next time while my hand is around your throat. Say it. And you do, thank you, a little choked and sputtering, and something about forcing the words out while you can barely breathe makes them feel different in your mouth. Heavier. More real. You said thank you while I was hurting you and you meant it and that’s a new piece of information about yourself that you have to carry around.
Then I start expanding the territory. I want to hear it when you’re wet. Not just when you cum. When you’re wet. The moment you notice that your body is responding to me I want you to stop whatever you’re doing and say thank you. Because that arousal doesn’t happen without me. That drip between your legs is something I built. I put it there through weeks and months of conditioning you to respond to my voice and my hands and my words and the least you can do is acknowledge where it comes from. So every time you feel it. Thank you. In the morning when you wake up thinking about me and you’re already soaked before you’ve opened your eyes. Thank you. In the middle of your workday when something I said three nights ago surfaces in your brain and suddenly your thighs are pressing together under your desk. Thank you. You text it to me like a little status report. Like a prayer you send throughout the day to the person responsible for keeping you this ruined.
But we can push further. I’ll have you thanking me for the things that should horrify you: Thank you for taking your limits away. Say it. Thank you for crossing every line I drew. Thank you for making me need this. Thank you for making it so I can’t cum without your permission. Thank you for showing my friends what I look like when I beg. Thank you for the bruises. Thank you for the photos you keep in a folder I pretend I’ve forgotten about. Thank you for making me say all of this out loud.
Say it after I make you do something new and degrading, and hear the thank you come out before you’ve even processed what just happened to you. Your brain skips straight past the shock and the shame and lands on thank you as your default setting. No matter what I do to you the first thing your body produces in response is a thank you that I’m the one doing it.
The way some people moan or gasp or cry. You say thank you. That’s your sound now. That’s what comes out of you when you’re overwhelmed and desperate and completely under my control.
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