Post-sex, He pushes me towards the shower, and I scream. It’s just a little bit, but this is what starts everything. I didn’t earn this scream. He knows it. I know it. I don’t deserve this scream.
But I will.
“That was nothing,” He tells me. “Come here.”
He shoves me into the empty room and I gasp.
“Daddy, Daddy, please-“ I think, *I need dinner.* I think, *I’m tired,* but something in His look stops me from protesting this time. I know quickly not to waste my energy.
“Come here again. Put your hand behind your head.”
He pushes me again. I launch backwards, and I struggle against falling.
“Daddy, Daddy!”
“Stop. If I want you to hit the wall, you will. If I want you to scream, you will.” He reaches for me and pulls me forward, and then pushes me one more time – “and if I want you to be off balance first, you will” – and then comes at me, pinning me all the way back against the wall.
“So easy,” He mocks, His eyes burning. “All it really takes is one finger.” He pushes first under my ribs, then where my hip becomes thigh, then under my jaw, and I twist further into the pain and into the wall each time. “Or, a few.” And then His fingers are inside me, easily, my cunt already wet from how effortlessly He hurts me. He wraps His other hand around my throat and I relax into it, letting Him manipulate my body the way only He knows how.
I think, controlled. I think, worked over* Dinner can wait.
He makes me come once, twice, three times, and then I’m really screaming. Now we will go to shower, I think, glowing.
“Come look at this, slut,” He calls me from the hall. I struggle up from where I have collapsed on the floor to see His arm drenched and dripping from fingers to elbow. I am still embarrassed to know He can make my body do that, and He sees it. “Lick it all up,” He commands. The shame takes me out of my bliss.
He pushes me into the bathroom and makes me watch myself in the mirror while He does it again, and again. This time, when I fall to the ground; something has changed and I know it. Suddenly, this isn’t about me getting off. Suddenly, it never was.
He tells me to stay exactly how I am on the ground with my eyes closed and I know something awful is coming. I think, stun gun. I think, needles. I imagine a dozen things I hate He is getting to make me suffer, shivering and gasping on my unstable, soaking thighs. But when He grabs me by my hair and drags me back outside, it is just Him—in the jeans and boots that disarm me most—and His knife pressed to my throat, me on my back before I can figure out how. This isn’t about torture. This is about control. This is about how I have none of it.
This time, I don’t want His fingers curled inside me. I’m aching. I also know I will come. I know I will writhe. I know the knife is blade down. I know He does not care. In one swift motion, He tosses the knife to the side and presses His boot to my throat, all without pausing His assault on my cunt. I am coughing even as I am coming.
I think, dangerous. I think, unstoppable. He literally kicks me aside when He is done, and walks swiftly off to the bedroom.
“Kiss these boots,” He calls out to me. “Crawl.” I moan in pain from the fetal position. “Crawl, bitch!” I crawl. “Now, beg. With reverence.”
I kneel up before Him and start to beg. I think the words coming out of my mouth must be someone else’s; I’ve always struggled with begging, but these are as genuine as my prayers. He pushes me backwards, kicks me backwards, and I keep kneeling until He snaps and points to the ground.
I bow as at an altar.
“I Love You, I Love You, I Love You,” the words fall out of my mouth even as He punches my worshipping body, presses my face down ‘til I’m sure it will mark.
“Damn right. Of course you do. You better. Kneel.” As He brings His boot up in between my legs over and over again, I feel surrender. If He leaves me black and blue and useless, I will not move. As He wishes. All He wishes.
When I am coming and screaming again, He leaves to undress. He takes off His boot and hands it to me.
“Get off with this,” He tells me. I rub the leather I so carefully polish against my clit and He presses His bare foot onto my thigh, onto my sternum. “You’re all mine. You’re mine forever. I could kill you whenever I wished. I will destroy everything about you that isn’t me; I’ll scrape those tattoos out of your flesh until you own none of yourself, you are nothing without me. You are nothing.
“How easy it would be,” He puts more weight on me. I am gasping pain and looking up at Him watching me come How he pleases, so far above me. I think, objectified. I think, conquered.
I am the subject beneath His heel and I have no will left of my own.
When He does go towards the shower, I go straight into it and kneel with my mouth open without being told. He is my King, and I am infinitely low, and I know exactly what I am worth. I tell Him so.
I drink His piss without hesitation and think how it was once a limit of mine and how now, I could live off of it. He tells me to touch myself again and to hold it in my mouth until I am coming; it is easy despite how it feels like every nerve is on fire. He covers me, mouth closed, less than a urinal, pissing on my face and in my hair and on my cunt and it tastes wonderful: His waste and my lack of control.
“Suck the rest out,” He says quietly. “Faster. Better. That’s it? You can’t show me any more? You don’t deserve my cock. Not ever. You’re disgusting. Useless. Come on, bitch. No good. A waste of my time.”
I think, yes, Owner. I think, yes, Owner.
“All fours,” He says. “Right here.” He is on the carpet while I am slipping, urine-covered, on the hard tile. With every thrust I think my forehead will crack on the ground. I struggle to push back against Him and at one point fall completely in my own filth. I feel empty, a hole, no dissonance in the degradation, simply acceptance. Disgusting. Useless.
“It is going to come again,” He tells me, “though it doesn’t think it can. Tell me why.”
“It loves how well You use it.”
“Do better.”
“It loves being covered in Your piss!” He comes inside me then stands up without any gentleness. I am shaking, slipping, shocked by my own honesty.
“I will shower first, then you,” He says. “You don’t deserve to be clean before me.” He tosses a sponge out towards me. “And not until that floor is clean, either.”
I try my best to clean the mess up off the ground while He talks so calmly from the shower. He tells me how pathetic I am, how desperate all the time, how ashamed I ought be at how little power I have over anything in my life and how much I’ve given up to Him. I am crumpling into myself at every word and at how He doesn’t look out and see me doing so once as He says this and at how I know He knows, anyway. I think, subjugated. I think, deserved.
When He is done He makes me sponge off with cold water. When I don’t move fast enough for Him, He grabs it out of my hand and flips it to the abrasive side, presses it against my inner thigh, my face, my finger that I pointed at Him earlier in mock sternness and rubs hard, leaving tiny red scratches and cuts. Then He turns the shower on and walks away.
I do not sob. I think, nothingness. There is nothing left but Him, my need to be useful, my need to serve. I have no wants or desires of my own. I have settled into my worthlessness.
“Come here,” I hear, when I have mechanically cleaned myself off, my whole self a ruled vessel. I move the curtain to see Him fully dressed. “Fix your collar,” He says. “It is not a toy.” I move the clasp of the metal worth more than me to the back of my neck. He pulls me in close to His lips.
I think, Love. I think, aftercare.
“You should know,” He whispers, “that I am very aware you will not be with me tomorrow. I know you will struggle. I know you will hurt. I know you will sob. And I want you to know that I will know every time, and I will be laughing at you. I will be laughing at how very sad you will be without me, how you have no reason to go on when I’m not there. How very mine you are. How you need me. How very dependent you are.”
And then He walks away, for me to sink into what He knows is my insecurity. To feel even lower. And lower. And more worthless. And more His.
I think, He’s got me. I think, I have no weakness He can’t find. I think, His.