I don’t rough you, I remold you. I teach your hands the polite, pleading rhythm I want. You’re prettified and vulnerable: stockings, satin, tiny bows, all the trappings that make your shame exquisitely visible. I guide every breath. I name you delicately cruel things that make your cheeks burn and your chest flutter. You stroke small, dainty circles the way I show you, apologetic, earnest, desperate to please. With each command I fold praise into scorn, and you melt between the two. I slow you, then pull you faster, until your breaths hitch and your body forgets to listen to anything but Me. When I allow release, it is a soft, ashamed blessing, delicate, breathy, perfectly owned. You come clean and contrite, whispering thanks as if it’s penance and prayer. Afterward I smooth your hair, remind you of your prettified place, and promise you’ll always be mine to teach.
