Uhuh. Now we’re back on track. This is something I can write about with enthusiasm, whether fiction or fact.
Tonight she is slave. Not Sarah, wife and mother. Not the pharmaceutical lab tech. Not humblesub69. Just slave.
She kneels in the centre of the studio floorspace, knees spread wide with her weight on her heels. Palms upturned on her thighs and head bowed. Her only adornment is her collar, although she will likely be wearing a variety of accessories this evening. Some of them will hurt.
She waits. Silent. Still. Patient. A well-trained slave does not fidget or sigh in restless anticipation. Master will come to her when he is ready.
Her mind is calm, the mundane tensions of everyday life quiescent beneath a blanket of self-imposed serenity. When Master comes, he will search her soul for these buried troubles and worries, dissect them, beat them from her flesh and claim what is left.
Thoughts of what he might do to her are playing light ghostly fingers across her nipples, teasing them to hardness, readying they for the bite of the clamps. When he fucks her, the chain connecting the clamps will swing back and forth in time with his rhythm, pulling on her nipples. If he allows it, she will gasp and whimper with the pain – or perhaps he will make her endure in silence.
Perhaps he will hood her, leave her in darkness and silence while he toys sadistically with her body for his pleasure. Ice, hot wax, the barbed-wire flogger, the spike-studded paddle? They have many toys to play with, trying to guess which is futile. She should not be playing guessing games right now in any case. This is the time for meditation, for entering the mindset of the devoted slave. If he finds her attention wandering when he arrives, she will be punished.
Breathe. In. Hold. Out. Again.
By the time the door opens softly, she is ready.