I collapse onto the bed. Everything moves like molasses. I feel so ancient when I am so tired. My body does not want to work any more. Sleep, it cries, Sleep, please. I crawl on elbows and knees to the head of the big bed, curl around and under and against the numerous pillows that I keep.
You follow me on your knees and slide my leggings off of my hips, down my legs, pull them gently from my toes. I mumble something. Resisting every second that I have to have my eyes open. You carefully unwind my arms from around the soft mounds of fabric and I whine, a high-pitched, mewling little whine. My eyes are closed because I cannot take the harsh light any longer.
“Turn off the lights,” I whimper.
“First, your dress.”
Your hands move under the soft, flowing fabric and you tug at it until I move and comply and participate. I roll over and around, squirming, and whining the whole time. It too comes off of my head, and flies to some unknown destination.
In a darker more beautiful world, I’d fuck your heart right through your chest.
The sad thing is, I think you’re fucking me with, but there is a part of me that wishes you weren’t.
I’m the Master of Self Control.
Are you? One of us needs to be, because I’d cut my breasts open as an invitation, given the chance.
I’m aware. It’s why I keep myself in check.
SLAP. SLAP. SLAP.
Shiver. Hiss. Don’t start something you can’t finish, Daddy. I’ve been ramped up like this for days…
When I put my hands on you next… you will bleed and squeal and cry. And you will hurt… your eyes will roll in the back of your head, and your toes will wiggle… and you might even drown. Pause. And then you will come.