My new mistress rules my world. Since she came around, my social circle has constricted; often, it’s just us. I’m complicit in this, of course. Because I’m so completely in her thrall, I’m shy about introducing her to my friends.
It took me a while to fall into my role as her sweet sub. Five times now, she has thumped my chest so hard my lungs collapsed. She sends me breathless to the hospital where she asks her white-coated conscripts to remove my clothes, pierce my skin, send poison into my veins and press me supine where I lie, benumbed and confused and at her mercy, for days.
Jealously, she does not allow me to exercise, and that means no sex. “I’m maybe starting to have feelings for this guy,” I once ventured, “He’s totally vanilla, nothing like you…” but I couldn’t finish the thought. She curled her lip and spat, “Do you think he likes bald chicks? I’m going to yank your hair till you weep. It’ll come out in fistfuls. You’ll wonder if I will ever stop, you’ll google pixie cuts and worry it’ll never grow back.”