‘Assume the position’ He demands, having chosen the implement He wishes to use upon my body.

He’s different now, His aura changed, the energy which surrounds Him, and which He subconsciously projects, is deliciously dark, dominance tinged with a hint of danger.
It’s intoxicating, and my body responds.
I barely contain a whimper as I watch intently as He walks purposefully towards me.

My mouth becomes dry, nerves take over, and a splintering of personality occurs.

The submissive feels suddenly exposed, intimidated, under the spotlight, and uncomfortably so. She’s frozen in position, unsure of what to do next.
The masochist regards Him with intrigue and lust, knowing the pain He has promised to deliver will shortly come to fruition. She’s a thrill seeker, an endorphin junkie, regardless of how ruthless He cares to be, she will always want more.
The brat is the ego, a ‘go fuck yourself, Sir’ never far from her lips. She seeks to push His buttons, to provoke a reaction, to see just how far He’ll allow her to go before He snaps. She refuses to move, purposefully remaining in place, defiant, her own worst enemy.

The belt is flung almost playfully, striking bare breasts a stinging blow.


The submissive wishes to make a move, but the masochist’s interest has been piqued, she and the brat becoming partners in crime, and they steadfastly refuse to comply.

The belt is finds it’s target again, harder this time, and His countenance changes once more.

He is no longer playful.
His actions have purpose.
Submission is demanded.

Within the submissive a turbulent conflict takes place, deafening, disharmonic, disconcerting, unfulfilling.
Nerves are shattered, palms are sweaty, insecurities abound.

Yet amongst all the chaos, the desire to please Him, to endure, to obey, to be His good girl overrides all else, and I humbly whisper

“Yes, Sir”