😎👉👉

Fun. Soooooo much fun.

Sexy. So damn sexy.

"Come here, pet."

Every hour or so, I call you over. You're understandably nervous as I pull you in by your collar and tilt your chin up. I pause for just long enough to bypass the period in which an expectation might be formed, before slapping you sharply while smiling softly. You blush and squirm, whimpering a little as I continue to hit you, over and over. The last time I did this I patted your hair and told you what a good girl you were, but it was impossible to predict whether it would be praise or pain.

"You've been very fidgety today." Slap. Slap. "You made a lot of noise while doing the dishes earlier." Slap. Slap. Slap. "Your makeup isn't dark enough." Slap. Slap. Little bits of criticism, interspersed with a random number of strikes. Tears sparkle in your beautiful eyes.

"I-I'm s-... so s-sorry, M-... Master." I've been steadily picking apart your every flaw for a week now, every tiny thing that doesn't please me as much as it could. But there isn't enough time for anxiety and depression to kick in, because your body is busy focusing on the pain and humiliation. A thousand tiny pinpricks smoothed over with corporal punishment.

"I forgive you, my love. I know how badly you want to be a good little girl for me, how you want to be the best you can be. That's why I have to do this. Do you understand?" My voice is tender and gentle, in spite of the physical and emotional suffering I inflict upon you. Words of silk and a hand of iron, lovingly and patiently devastating your mind. You're gripping my shirt now, sobbing gently, but I don't let you move your head away from my hand. I care too much to let you go.

You're beyond words now, your brain a cocktail of hormones, completely overwhelming reason and control. I finally stop, and pull you into a hug so tight you can scarcely breathe - or is that the hormones? You don't care, because you're burrowing into my chest, broken and pathetic. Just the way I like you. I stroke your hair softly and kiss you gently on the forehead, whispering sweet nothings about what a good little girl you are, how important this is for you.

By providing this constant stream of discipline, you always feel a deep sense of care and structure. A daily rollercoaster of emotions that renders you insensible to anything else. You can't think beyond the next session, and since that's only (roughly) an hour away, you're incapable of worrying about tomorrow. I keep you busy with tasks and chores, and you're so present in the moment that you experience a calmness you've never known.

HEADS UP: The U.S. Postal Service quietly changed how postmarks work.

Mail is no longer automatically postmarked with the date you drop it off. Instead, the postmark now reflects the date it’s first processed by an automated sorting facility — which can be days later.

If you mail something right at a deadline, the official postmark could be later than your drop-off date and may be considered late.

If mailing date matters to you, go inside the post office and request a hand-stamped postmark.