Erotica,  Female Domination,  Female Led Relationships,  Lesbian Domination

“Thank you for allowing me to serve, Mistress”

She positions herself against the vanity in the bedroom, her round, peachy buttocks irresistibly presented to me. Her body is reluctant and apprehensive, but in the mirror, as her hair hangs loose and partially covers her face, what I see is the complete and utter resignation in her eyes. I try not to admire her displayed like that before me; try not to press my breasts against her trembling back and kiss her neck. There are little rituals and protocols we follow in our household to keep us in our respective headspaces in the menacing face of routine. Some of the more obvious ones involve her remaining nude when inside the house, kissing the tip of my shoes when I arrive home from work and ongoing discipline. As her Mistress, I never cease to assess her performance under my service and intervene accordingly.

Rituals and protocols are important to us, and she has confessed she is in need of a very special one because she feels a potential for flaw in her service. So tonight, it has come to a maintenance spanking: a preemptive tool in our power exchange to secure her willingness and perfect submission to me when she feels close to a disconnect and her service has become a series of chores to write off a list.

Clothed only by her long golden hair, eternity steel collar, and beautiful unkempt mound of pubic hair, her body tenses in anticipation; her breathing deep and deliberate. I don’t tell her when I’m going to begin, I simply do. The impact of my hand on her bare bottom is stinging and delicious. She jumps and squirms, making a high-pitched sound in spite of herself. She repositions herself immediately before I can correct her. Her smooth skin rapidly takes on a pink hue in the shape of my hand that lingers only for an instant. I can’t help but smile. “Good girl,” I say, leaning in and whispering in her ear, treating myself to giving her breasts a tight and cruel squeeze.

I don’t prep her. While this is not punishment, it’s not meant to be pleasant. My heavy hand rapidly strikes several loud, merciless blows and she groans behind closed lips. How I want to bruise that lovely unmarked flesh and have her proudly admire my work when she soothes them out of the shower; have her feel the delicious aching aftermath every time she sits and once again feel filled with serenity.

She takes the pain so exquisitely. One hard slap after another falls on her buttocks and I feel the warmth of her stinging flesh. I exercise restraint despite my sadistic desire to unleash myself on her beautiful frame. But this isn’t about me right now. This is about her. It’s about us. It’s about upholding my commitment in accepting her service and providing her with the direction she needs in order to achieve it to her full potential.

She’s propping herself against the vanity with her hands clenched into tight fists as her body tenses up in expectation of each blow. Her legs tremble and her back turns into a hump as she holds her breath in a futile attempt to minimize the pain of my unrelenting strikes.

“Unclench your fists, arch your back, cross your legs and take deep breaths,” I say firmly, following it by a single, severe, and satisfying smack. She nods and groans in displeasure which quickly turns into a restrained sob. She tries to bear it with grace and dignity, but her failed attempt at composure betrays her. “Yes, Mistress” she gasps when she’s not quick enough to reposition herself and correct her for it. Her face is looking down, her hair covering it in its entirety. I grab her by a fistful and raise her head with one hand while the other removes the strands of hair away from it. Her eyes are tightly shut and her expression is one of intense pain. Her labored breathing and obvious difficulty in maintaining her position are lovely to me.

“Open your eyes and look at yourself”,I say. They are glossed and there are tears about to stream down her face, her cheeks completely flushed and warm. She looks at herself in the mirror and an ugly sob escapes her.  “Look at how beautiful you look,” I whisper in her ear, still holding her head back. “You are mine.” Again, a sob escapes her as she nods and looks at me in the mirror. There are genuine love and tenderness in my expression. “You are perfect” I whisper as more tears well up and stream from her eyes uncontrollably.

“You’re going to look at yourself in the mirror as I spank you. I want you to contemplate this look on your face until I stop. I want you to look at these tears streaming down, these red cheeks; to listen to your groans, the sobs you’re trying so hard to contain. You’re no longer going to tense your body. You’re going to let go and hand yourself over completely.” She nods, her body making an effort to relax in spite of herself, and with each and every blow there is a shower of sobs coming out harder and harder as she finally reaches catharsis. I continue to spank her and it’s not until I draw blood that I cease my loving cruelty. “You are here because I accept your service to me and allow you to serve. You are here because you freely dedicate yourself to me and put my needs ahead of your own. You are here because every day you make the active choice to commit all you have, to this.”

She nods, unable to formulate any words. “And I am here to guide you and nurture your submission to me.” She nods energetically in agreement even as she cries. “Stand up and face me,” I say softly but firmly. Her face and breasts are flushed and wet with tears, mucus, and sweat. She lifts and kisses my hands incessantly. It’s not until after she finishes that I take notice of the fact that my palms are bruised as well. I kiss her lips and tears. “Lay on the bed.” I drink my fill of her as she walks with her disheveled hair partially veiling her face.I grab a bottle of oil from the vanity, place myself next to her and admire the deep, dark, angry red spread across her tender flesh. Our session comes close to an end as I begin to massage it into her buttocks, bringing the soreness back to life. I do it thoroughly, with nothing but love and awe over her willingness to suffer for me— for her commitment to us.

“Thank you for allowing me to serve, Mistress,” she says, turning her reddened face to look at me and wincing as my hands squeeze and knead into her. I use my knuckles to target the stiff muscles on her neck and back. We will both be bruised and in pain tomorrow. It’s the act of soothing and healing her after a session that brings us back from the intensity of the scene, filling us with tranquility, and bringing us closer together. All of this has only solidified our bond and dedication to our power exchange: my commitment to own and care for her, and her commitment to being owned and serve.

I grab a bottle of oil from the vanity, place myself next to her and admire the deep, dark, angry red spread across her tender flesh. Our session comes close to an end as I begin to massage it into her buttocks, bringing the soreness back to life. I do it thoroughly, with nothing but love and awe over her willingness to suffer for me— for her commitment to us.

“Thank you for allowing me to serve, Mistress,” she says, turning her reddened face to look at me and wincing as my hands squeeze and knead into her. I use my knuckles to target the stiff muscles on her neck and back. We will both be bruised and in pain tomorrow. It’s the act of soothing and healing her after a session that brings us back from the intensity of the scene, filling us with tranquility, and bringing us closer together. All of this has only solidified our bond and dedication to our power exchange: my commitment to own and care for her, and her commitment to being owned and serve.

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