“Did you ask permission for that? I don’t recall you asking permission.”
Uh oh. I am over his lap, alternating between spanks and orgasms—orgasms I forgot to ask for. But in my defense, he was doing that thing with his fingers, and I juuuuuuuust caaaaaaaan’t help it…
“We’ll address it later.”
And he leaves it at that…for now. Later, I am bent over the arm of the sofa. He drips lube on my ass. He works fingers inside both my holes, and… Oh. My. God. I am on edge almost instantly. I ask permission, and he withdraws his fingers. Oh no. After a moment, the fingers are back inside me, making their magic.
“What has been a constant rule across all your relationships?”
Fuck. It’s so good. I can’t think. Fuck… He stops. My thighs are quivering, and a whimper escapes my lips.
“Don’t cum without permission.”
“That’s right. And what did you do earlier?”
“I came without permission.”
His fingers are back inside me. I groan. I know the game now.
“Tell me when you’re ready to cum.”
And I do tell him. Over and over again. I can feel my wetness sliding down my thighs. Each time makes me a little more desperate. But I also accept it. I accept that he owns my body, and he chooses what I feel. This is what denial does to me. It makes me smaller. Subservient. Desperate to please. Not pleasing him in hopes that he will give me an orgasm, but pleasing him because it is my purpose. My only pleasure is bringing him pleasure. It makes me more eager to serve, even through desperation and suffering.
After edging and a few rounds with the crop, I have no doubt about my place. Then he sits down.
“Come here, girl. Put your pussy on my foot.”
Oh nooooooo. I do not like feet. Kissing them or grinding on them. Any of it. I will do it, but I don’t like it. And he knows that. But of course, I obey.
“This is how you’re going to cum.”
I pout. Maybe I cringe a little. But I start moving back and forth. Fuck, I’m so wet. I go slowly at first. But then, I want to get it over with, so I pick up the pace. I close my eyes a little. I imagine his fingers inside me. I try to focus on the throbbing warmth on my ass. I think about what he will do to me next. But then I grimace a little in frustration.
“I don’t know if I can do it like this…”
“Do you think other girls do this? When other girls want to cum, they do it how they want and when they want. Other girls get to choose. Other girls aren’t humping their Master’s foot, desperately trying to get off. Other girls…”
And just like that, I am low. Nothing. Just a slave for his amusement. And I hold his calf as much as I can with cuffed wrists, riding his foot as I cum. After, I collapse with my head resting on his thigh. My eyes close for a moment. He strokes my hair, and the world hums softly around us. I nuzzle my cheek against his thigh. His little pet, exactly where I belong.
Later I tell him that I was thinking about those girls—the ones who get to cum whenever they want. And I thought, How sad for them. Because with his ownership comes my freedom. I don’t want to cum when and how I want. I want to be the girl that gives what other girls won’t. I want him to tear down those boundaries and strip me of everything that is outside of us. There is so much freedom in slavery. It is the freedom of complete acceptance. The freedom to give myself without hesitation. The freedom to find what makes my heart sing. Grinding myself against his foot like that and being reminded of other girls… I felt low. But I also felt accepted and cherished for who I am. And free.
No, I don’t envy those other girls. The ones who think they are free. Because the freedom I find in his ownership is worth so much more to me.
