call me Tits

It starts simple. I make you cum and I tell you to say thank you and you do because that’s easy. That one makes sense. Someone made you feel good, and you express gratitude, that’s just good manners. You don’t even think about it. Thank you. Of course. That felt amazing. Thank you.

But then I have you say it again the next time while my hand is around your throat. Say it. And you do, thank you, a little choked and sputtering, and something about forcing the words out while you can barely breathe makes them feel different in your mouth. Heavier. More real. You said thank you while I was hurting you and you meant it and that’s a new piece of information about yourself that you have to carry around.

Then I start expanding the territory. I want to hear it when you’re wet. Not just when you cum. When you’re wet. The moment you notice that your body is responding to me I want you to stop whatever you’re doing and say thank you. Because that arousal doesn’t happen without me. That drip between your legs is something I built. I put it there through weeks and months of conditioning you to respond to my voice and my hands and my words and the least you can do is acknowledge where it comes from. So every time you feel it. Thank you. In the morning when you wake up thinking about me and you’re already soaked before you’ve opened your eyes. Thank you. In the middle of your workday when something I said three nights ago surfaces in your brain and suddenly your thighs are pressing together under your desk. Thank you. You text it to me like a little status report. Like a prayer you send throughout the day to the person responsible for keeping you this ruined.

But we can push further. I’ll have you thanking me for the things that should horrify you: Thank you for taking your limits away. Say it. Thank you for crossing every line I drew. Thank you for making me need this. Thank you for making it so I can’t cum without your permission. Thank you for showing my friends what I look like when I beg. Thank you for the bruises. Thank you for the photos you keep in a folder I pretend I’ve forgotten about. Thank you for making me say all of this out loud.

Say it after I make you do something new and degrading, and hear the thank you come out before you’ve even processed what just happened to you. Your brain skips straight past the shock and the shame and lands on thank you as your default setting. No matter what I do to you the first thing your body produces in response is a thank you that I’m the one doing it.

i wanna see it everywhere. the horror fanatic watching shlocky b-movie rape scenes like they’re porn. the girl who loves cars getting bent over the hood. the ren faire attendant dressed as a tavern wench. the tabletop gamers and larpers doing mediaeval fantasy, getting treated medievally. the skater chick who laughs loudest when a girl face-plants, the metalhead demanding you name five albums. the goth who draws a pentagram on the floor and kneels naked, thinks of her punishment for eve eating the apple and whispers ‘hail satan.’

barstool type girls are a favourite of mine. you know, they watch football, eat wings, are all too happy to go to strip clubs and participate in the locker room talk. who proudly proclaim that they’re not like other girls, they’re one of the guys because they put on a sports jersey, while still looking every bit the bleach blonde fucktoy. still pretending she doesn’t know how to shoot pool so he can show her.

and the gym bunnies with an intense discipline and determination; are strong physically and mentally. what motivates their commitment to self improvement? looking good for men, of course! she’ll work herself to the bone keeping toned for you and won’t whine for help hauling the groceries. let her tell herself it’s because you respect her strength if it makes your life easier.

similar are the boss babes, hyper productive and entrepreneurial. proud to have her own money, apartment, car, small business. she’s a big believer in splitting the bill on dates. why? she heard men don’t like gold diggers. she doesn’t want him to think she’s putting out cause she gets something out it. she’s not doing it for anything but him. whether or not she expands her “online brand” as a pornfluencer into onlyfans will depend entirely on him. he okays it, but only for a split of the money? wow, now she’s the provider. how empowering!

that’s to say nothing of the actual girl bosses. the salaried power player at a fortune 500 company. what does she do there? discourage employees under her from going to HR, cut funding for the women in business initiative and giggle at sexist jokes to show she’s a team player, mostly. she has the economic freedom to do anything, a career she fought tooth and nail for, a spot in the c-suite someday. she’s a winner, not a trophy. she’ll give it all away once a man further up the ladder knocks her up.

well, what about the marxist punk yelling no gods, no masters? no way she’s gonna submit to a man. no, but she’s gonna suck dick for the communal spirit and promote collective ownership of her holes.

the shy girl into art and literature? her love of culture gives her unique insight into the history of male supremacy. everywhere she sees herself through the eyes of men. not just any men, creative geniuses. in the museum she looks at the ancient vases that use the same iconography to depict marriage as rape. from the nude statue of a goddess to the painting of a peasant girl — both are objects, never the subject. in the library she reads the taming of the shrew and thinks, who am i to argue with shakespeare? quietly, she lets her dreams of being an artist die and resigns herself to the life of the muse.

Now say, "I love being treated like this." Stop fucking crying. Look at me. Say it with me: "I. Love. Being. Treated. Like. This."

Very good. You love being treated like this? Yeah? Say it. That's right, you do. You're doing so good for me.

All right, look at me. Focus. You ready for another? Say, "I want more."

Say it. "I want more." Good. Say, "I deserve it." Tell me you love being treated like this. You want more. Again. From the top. Again.

Breathe through it, you can keep going. Again. Don't stop, I'll be done soon. Keep going. Again.

He gets a look that lets her know he's through talking, and it's a look that also means she knows what's coming next. She falters, hand raised mid-point, and whatever she's saying trails off. His hand moves to his flies, and pulls them down.

It can't be that easy. It can't. It shouldn't be.

But it is.

Even before he pulls his cock out she's clenched her thighs together and let out a little whine. Knowing what's coming doesn't help. Knowing she won't be able to do anything about it. Knowing she's been conditioned. It just makes it worse.

It's why she's already halfway onto her knees by the time his cock was out, and kneeling when he steps in front of her. He isn't all the way hard yet but hard enough that her head is swimming, eyes locked onto him.

He rests it on her face. She's panting.

She was wrong. Can barely remember what she was wrong about but she knows she was. Has to have been. Obvious. Dumb. Such a dumb girl. Should never have argued. So stupid. His cock is harder now, heavier. Panting is now mixed with whining. Needy noises.

He's smiling. He lifts his cock and taps her with it, right on the forehead. He calls her a dummy and she moans. This always happens. The first few times it had been more difficult. Not really difficult, just more difficult. She’d at least needed telling to get onto her knees. Now he had her trained. Now she couldn’t help herself.

And she knew it.

The whines and pants are muffled when his cock fills her mouth. His hand helps her all the way down and her eyes roll back, thick string of drooling link her lips to the head of his cock when he pulls out and she gulps down air a moment or two before he’s back. She looked ditzy on her eyes going cross-eyed at his cock - flushed and drooling, she looks pathetic. That’s the point.

He taps her on the forehead again. Spit-slick cock makes a quiet little slapping sound. 

No resistance when he tips her gently backwards. Not a word as he pushes her legs apart, skirt riding up. Eyes are only half-open as he settles in, a hand holding one leg, the other pulling her soaked panties to the side and lining himself up. There’s a deep and satisfied sigh as his cock parts her folds and slides inside, and her eyes close fully. She’s smiling. She lost the argument, but she can’t remember there being one, so what did it matter?

He lets her rest there once he’s finished. No sense trying to snap her out of it, she’s obviously gone for now, and will be for a while. Cum dribbles out and drips to the floor between her legs and she quivers when he gives her cunt a possessive little pat before pulling her underwear back into place again. No sense letting it leak out.

“I think I won,” he whispers into her ear before kissing her on the head.

Take my phone- text people, pretending to be me.

Cancel plans because you don’t want me going out

Tell me I need to stay home because it would make you happy. Don’t let me wear clothes. Leave the house because you have plans but make me stay home, alone.

Or tell me I can still go out and see my friends. Make me thank you for allowing me that option. Tell me, two minutes before I walk out the door, that you wanted to help me with my makeup. Coat my face in your cum. Spread it into my hair.

Tell me it’s up to me- I can still go out, but I can’t clean up. Make ME make the decision to call and cancel. I’ll have to be the one to come up with a story.

Eventually my friends aren’t going to want to invite me anymore.

Make my life revolve around you. Your wants. Your needs.

No, shh. Don’t try and answer, silly. It was rhetorical and you’re still gagged. Shh, that’s it. Just listen. Eyes on me. I am going to tell you how long you’ve been here. Well, not exactly. More like giving you an idea of how long.

Did you know that tomorrow is going to be next year?

Shh shh, calm down, it’s okay. You’re safe. Everyone knows you’re safe. They don’t know how safe, but they know. It’s okay. Shh. Calm. Switch off, switch off. Focus.

Feeling better?

Good girl.

Of course, you probably don’t remember a lot of your time here. Do you? No, you don’t. That’s on purpose, that’s part of this. You don’t remember either but you did agree to this. You asked me! Honestly, you did. But forgetting things is always a little unnerving, so it’s understandable you’d feel a bit worried, a bit scared, a bit confused. Switch off.

There you go.

Now, I have a reason for asking you that question I opened with, about how long you’ve been here. Have a reason for telling you about what day it is, too.

Today is your last day as you.

Shh, switch off, focus. Good girl.

I didn’t time it this way on purpose but this is how it’s worked out and I do quite like it. All that you’ve been through for me, being here, it’s been getting you ready for it, and this is the next big step. The old you is going to stop, and the new you is going to start.

Just in time for the new year. Feels right, yes? Nod for me.

Good girl.

So think about that for me. Really think about it. Focus. You - the you you are now - is going to stay in this year. Forever. Left behind. The other you, the new you, the you I’ve been making - she’s going forward. Think about that. Focus. Think about how you wanted it and let it happen and now can’t do anything to stop it.

Thinking about that? Focus. Good. I can see you are.

And did you know, thinking about it? That’s part of it. That’s part of what’s going to make it happen. You’re squirming, and you’re trying to be quiet but even with the gag I can still hear you. You can feel it starting, can’t you? Nod. Good girl. Not long now. Maybe a few hours? It’s coming closer. That’s it, that’s a look of acceptance. You need this, and this is going to happen. Good girl.

You want it to happen. You need it to happen.

Forgetting isn’t so scary anyway. You won’t even remember - sort of the point. It’s scary now because it feels so final, but once it happens? Gone. It feels so good to forget. Forgetting feels wonderful. There’s always so many things you’ll never have to worry about again, things that have already gone. You don’t miss them. You won’t miss you.

Good girl.

Only a few hours left anyway. A whole new year! And a whole new you. You’ll be much happier. The new you, I mean. Now, your toy is charged up so let’s just… there you go, nice and low, hmm? Help keep any bad thoughts out. And I picked a nice pretty girl for you to listen to for a bit, there you go. Listen. Focus. Good? Good. Good girl.