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"Oh I'll be mean to you. I need to love on you with my wicked side," her hair feels so soft to pet and weave my fingers into. "The side of me where I'm strict and controlling and I take what's mine no matter what. You've been warned."

"Of course." she says, bashful and smiling. And it all sounds like our normal play and banter, but it feels like there's a charged energy in the air, something renewed. We've done this dance a million times, why does this time feel so intense?

I caress her head lovingly in my lap. This sweet, innocent woman would do anything for me and I know it, our bond tempered from years of being together. We both know we'd do anything for each other, but in this moment, something feels different, feels more empowering.

The authority over herself she's granted me flows through me. I need to hear it articulated. I need her to hear my power over her put into words. I need to hear just how submissive and degraded she yearns to be for me. I need to hear her accept her place in this call and response we call dominance and submission. I need to see the same need reflected in her eyes when she does.

I channel the intensity of the moment, I can feel what that energy is for now coursing through me. That's what domspace can do to a person. We've said these things a million times, but I know now exactly what needs to be done and exactly what needs to be said to take it a step deeper and take these things we talk about and bend them into the shape of our reality through the sheer force of our love alone.

I grip her hair and chin tightly and force her to look up at me, the tension of the moment like a static charge about to spark. "If I decide to fuck you, then you're getting fucked. That's all it takes." I smile down at her knowing the meanest, most evil thing I could truly do for her to fulfill her needs is unilaterally take away her ability to choose. "Do you understand?"

"Yes Daddy. But life will get in the way."

"It will sometimes, but I know that you won't."

And I swear, if her eyes could have become hearts in that moment, they would have. There's something whimsical about telling her where her place is so matter of factly. That there's something in her life now that she no longer gets to decide— not even have to think about. Having her hear it straight from my mouth and not just accepting it, but just reveling in where she belongs in speechless, humiliated awe. Unable to say anything but squeeze her thighs together, lean into my hands on her throat and in her hair, and whine softly into my bulge.