The sharp echo of my heels against the cold, polished floor was the only sound filling the room—a rhythmic reminder of who held the power. I paused deliberately, letting the silence stretch, thick and heavy, suffocating him more than any collar ever could.

He knelt there, trembling, eyes cast downward. His breath came in shallow bursts, anticipation mingling with fear—my favorite blend. The scent of leather and faint perspiration hung in the air, mingling with the subtle metallic tang of anticipation.

I circled him slowly, each step measured, calculated. My crop tapped lightly against my thigh, a gentle prelude to the symphony of degradation that was about to unfold.

“Look at me,” I commanded, my voice a silk-wrapped blade.

His eyes lifted, glazed with submission, desperation, and something deeper—the raw need to be seen, even in his most broken state. That was the essence of my art: not just to dominate, but to strip away the façade, exposing the vulnerable truth beneath.

Pain is an honest language. It doesn’t lie, doesn’t pretend. It speaks directly to the soul, carving messages into flesh and mind alike. With every strike of my crop, every whispered humiliation, I wasn’t just marking his skin—I was writing my name across his very being.

By the time I was done, he was a masterpiece of bruises and tears, his gratitude spilling out in broken sobs and whispered pleas. And as I stood over him, basking in the raw, unfiltered aftermath, I felt it—the intoxicating thrill of absolute power.

This isn’t just what I do. It’s who I am.