Chillin

My fingers absently glide over your collar, settling into your hair. They scratch in small, rhythmic circles just the way you adore. Despite the flickering television showing scenes of your kidnapping, my eyes stay staring down at the prize in my lap. I can imagine each moment from the sound alone. You are infinitely more fascinating.

I wonder what goes through your head as you stare towards the screen. Do you even register that person as you? Are you confused why I'm showing you this scary tape? Do you feel like thanking me for taking you away from whatever came before? Are you wondering where that burning need to escape, to struggle, to fight for your life went? No matter I suppose.

Waking up to subliminals and spirals, going about your day in a horny hypnotic haze where no matter how hard you try, you just can't seem to concentrate on anything but service.

They pull random m&ms out, one or two at a time. And then name a MtG card based off the color. (Orange are colorless). Then the next one pulls their colors and names a response.

Now we have an Enlightened Monarch who has given us free access to clerical healing magic, public wizardry transportation, and enough magically conjured food to end hunger and the need for farm labor.

She still has a loyal harem of beautiful women converted from the populace. But the girls seem really happy and she took the fletcher's daughter as her princess.

Honestly, the only thing that's really weird about life now is that after we began drinking from the enchanted aquaducts that give the cities unlimited water, all the men began to grow boobs.

Zip-tie your hands behind your back. Stuff your mouth with my panties and then duct tape gag you.

Cut your clothes off, turn on the AC and the fan. Spritz you with cold water until you're shivering.

And then ignore you. Go about my day. Go out for lunch. Get back and throw a missing poster of you on the mattress for you to see.

When I think I'm ready, I'll undo your wrists. And I'm going to make you do push-ups at threat of lashings until your arms are so tired you literally can't use them any longer

Once your arms are too tired to function, I can release you long enough to fuck you proper. Maybe I'll cover your eyes for most of it, until you give up on relying on sight at all.

I want to see your arms *shaking.* I want to see tears streaming down your face after soaking through the blindfold. I'll use the missing posters to wipe them away.

Maybe I'll keep you like that all weekend. And every time you refer to me, it'll be as "owner" or you'll be hit. And you'll refer to yourself as "your captive" until the only reference point in your head for who or what you are centers around me.

I want your entire worldview to be centered around my ownership of you. I want you to confuse love and fear and pleasure and pain until you don't even know what you're feeling anymore.

So when I tell you what you're feeling is love for me. You have no choice but to believe it. I'm your only anchor to reality. I'm the only point of reference in your life.