The Preparation

“Are you arguing with me?” he asked. Eyebrows raised, he almost sounded amused, but she knew it was a fine veneer of amusement. Underneath it was the expectation that she would obey.

“No, Sir, not really – not arguing,” she said. “Just – I don’t understand why -” His laughter stopped her in mid sentence.

That’s ok then,” he said, stepping closer to her, caressing her cheek. “You don’t need to understand, you Just – Need – To,” and he paused, raised eyebrows.

“Obey,” she responded, trying not to sigh.

“Say it.”

“I don’t need to understand, I just need to obey.” She said it, but she still felt some mutiny in her heart. There wasn’t any reason to this, it served no purpose.

“Say it again,” he said.

She felt herself responding, the heat between her legs, but she refused to acknowledge it. Still reluctant, she said,” I don’t need to understand, I just need to obey.”

She realized then that he was looking at her with that look, head cocked to the side, looking at her as if he could read her mind. Or see her soul.

“Neglect.” he said. “This is my fault for neglecting you. It’s not your fault. But I know how to remedy this. Don’t worry.”

“Oh, shit,” she thought. But there was a smile at the corner of her lips.

“Come,” he said. Biting back a sigh she followed him, first cup of coffee in hand. He led her to the study, to the desk in one corner of the room. It was an old-fashioned writing desk, light oak with curved legs and a small hutch. The drawer under the desk surface had a painted design, a flowering vine. She had not kept anything in the small drawers except a couple of special pens in one and several pairs of nipple clamps in another. She supposed they were still there.

The larger drawer had held her notebook, a scented candle in a glass jar, a small box of matches for the candle, and several “motivational devices,” as he sometimes called them. Cuffs, a training collar, a couple of leather straps, a wooden ruler. As they approached the desk, part of her wanted to run away. She remembered the feelings – like muscle memory, she thought. The chair – small, but with a leather seat, cool when she first sat on it, but warming under her skin. It was always skin, she was not allowed to wear clothes when she was seated here.

He stopped in front of the desk, as she knew he would. Turned toward her. “I bought you a new notebook,” he said.

She smiled, almost despite herself. A new notebook meant assignments. Lines to write, journal entries. Writing them here meant placing her hands flat on the seat of the desk, offering her ass for motivation – for the strap or the ruler – while she counted. Submission.

“We’ll start with lines,” he said. “Ten times you’ll write, ‘I don’t need to understand, I just need to obey.’ Then you can read it to me. Then you can ask for ten with the strap. I’ll probably agree to ten. After that, we can get on with the day. The waxer, her name is Penny, she’s coming at 11:00 and I still have to trim your hair before then. Here,” he moved back, patted the seat of the chair. “Let’s get started.”

She still wanted to protest, she didn’t understand why he couldn’t have just made a normal appointment where she went to get waxed. It was going to be uncomfortable having this person come to the house to do this, and he wasn’t going to let her get dressed and that would be weird, even if he did say this person was used to doing this in the kink community and didn’t think anything about it.

But she didn’t want to start with the strap and then have to write lines and get “motivated” again afterwards. So she sat at the desk.

The new notebook was beautiful. A thick spiral notebook, the cover decorated with the moon and stars, and a mandala design. He had laid out gel pens too, her preference. There were four, green and teal, maroon and purple. She noticed that they matched the colors on the notebook cover. “The purple,” he said, “is for journaling when you want to write about something. The maroon is for writing lines. The teal is for fantasy. And the green is for when you’re journaling because I’ve assigned it.”

“Yes, Sir,” she said, “So maroon today?”

“Yes,” he said. “Do you remember what you’re writing?”

“Of course, Sir,” she said, “I’m writing, ‘I don’t need to understand, I just need to obey.’ The words came easier now, and she was more aware of the rush of arousal she felt as she said them.

“Good girl,” he said, leaning over to stroke a nipple, and she shivered with pleasure. “Don’t forget the candle,” he added. She pulled the drawer open and the scent of the candle, enclosed and neglected for so long, almost overwhelmed her. Tears welled up as she took it out. The matchbox was still there, she struck a match and carefully lit the candle.

As she opened the cover of the notebook, she felt a fierce urge to serve him, and she wanted to kneel at his feet. She wanted his cock in her mouth. But she knew that he wouldn’t appreciate that, not in this moment. Right now, she just needed to obey.

10 thoughts on “The Preparation

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