By Erden Das

I’m not sure if it’s that second drink, or the not-exactly-subtle shift of power that I felt the moment you ordered dinner for me, or the fact that I’ve spent the last week edging myself on command, or just a sense of anticipation that’s been denied for too long. Whatever the cause, I find myself somehow…not misinterpreting your words, exactly, but interpreting them through a very particular lens.

“I think you should have one more drink.”

I wonder, vaguely, if you notice the way my breath catches as that translates to, “Have another drink, slut,” but your slow smile answers *that* question quickly enough.

***

We’re upstairs, just outside your door, and I’m not really certain how that happened. I remember the last drink, mostly, or maybe it’s more truthful to say that I remember the experience of the drink. Taking a long, slow sip, savoring the taste before swallowing. Each piece of that ritual guided by your words that could, in other circumstances, have felt like a suggestion: “Here’s how to enjoy this experience more thoroughly,” but in this context carry a whole different weight, establishing a pattern of command and obedience.

The taste of the alcohol lingers on my tongue as we pay, and cross the street. Did your fingers brush over the back of my neck, or was that my imagination? I wasn’t sure then, and now I have other things to focus on.

“You know, we didn’t have time to really talk about boundaries this week,” you say as you unlock the door, and that smile from before is gone, replaced by a look that makes me feel like prey. “Let’s do that now.”

My own response feels as intoxicating as another sip from the glass.

“Yes, Goddess.”

***

The view of your living room is very different from my knees. I’m still clothed – sort of, if you count an unbuttoned shirt that’s been pulled halfway off and a pair of boxers to be so – and I’ve never felt so exposed. 

“This is all right,” you say. “See? You’re still dressed, just like you required.” And of course you’re right, in a sense, and since I didn’t specify what “remaining dressed” really meant, I can’t argue. 

The breathless, submissive voice that responds bears only a passing resemblance to the one that was flirting with you across the street.

“Yes, Goddess.”

***

It turns out that negotiating boundaries in this state is rather easy. You mention something that you’d like, and I either agree immediately (like when you suggested that the conversation would be better had with me on my knees), or I hesitate for a moment (like when you suggested that touching myself while you watch doesn’t *technically* count as crossing a line of intimacy). In the latter case, a reminder that you’ve effectively seen that already, what with the DMs and emails and voice memos I’ve sent you recently, is enough to turn that brief hesitation to a whimper of assent. 

It’s not really too long at all before you decide that it’s simpler just to gag me, since I’m not really participating in the conversation all that much.

***

I’m vaguely aware that we’re still “negotiating.” Sort of. It’s hard to focus on anything but the feel of the gag between my lips, the sensation of my hand on my cock, the sheer power of your gaze as you look down at me. 

“Being dressed,” it seems, is a requirement that’s now met by letting my boxers remain hooked around one ankle, exposing me completely to your eyes and to the camera on your phone. I can’t quite remember how that happened, but I do remember nodding my assent when you suggested it. 

I nod just as willingly (is “willingly” still a concept that means anything by now?) when you suggest the nipple clamps. Not that it was much of a suggestion, when you toss them over and growl, “Put these on, slut.” 

You don’t even bother speaking, when you produce the collar, so I don’t bother nodding. I simply take it, buckling and locking it in place obediently, my hands returning to my cock an instant later, moaning and writhing before you.

I can feel the satisfaction in your voice like a caress when you say, simply, “Mine, now.”