(Written for a shy friend to give her naughty ideas 😏)
You're not there to be spanked.
You're not there to hang from the cross.
Exposed, for all eyes to see. A feast
for the voyeurs loitering around the room.
You're not there to play. To moan. To cry out.
You are there because he says so.
You are dressed more demurely than the rest.
Heels. A skirt to your knees. A corset.
So that all can be envious of your figure,
but none can look at that which is his.
And you are his. No thick, heavy collar for you.
Just a simple silver chain that claims you. Owned.
You are there to watch. To stand with him
and see all of the things people do to each other.
Reddened flesh. Tears. Humiliation. Degradation.
A woman on a spanking bench, begging
for mercy. A slave in a cage, waiting for pain.
A submissive on her knees, gagging on cock.
A hand lies warm on the back of your neck.
A voice, smooth as honey, whisper in your ear.
Look, he tells you. Watch. Listen. Tell me,
what would you like me to do to you?
Face on fire, you can't speak. He won't have that.
Tell me, he demands. Tell me what you want.
You point. Your hand trembles. The woman
on the cross. The woman on her knees.
The woman dangling from chains, her face a mask
of bliss. That isn't good enough. His hand tightens.
Speak, submissive. Cornered, you tur
n to him.
All of it, you say.
