The only thing I beg for.
He likes when I call him Master. He likes when I am restrained. He likes to see me beg, and squirm, and moan...until, at last, I am fed. My Master is my vice, and I am his toy. We play a little rough and ride the edge of danger. When I need to surrender, when I've had too much control in life, I call my Master...I know he can pacify my urge for total submission. When he enters the room I am on my knees, he greets me with a soft caress on my cheek, then permits me to rise. We embrace like true lovers breaking for only a moment. The rest is a well-orchestrated dance, a clearly defined contract, a game only we can play. I am bound, gagged, and my erect nipples squeezed between cold metal clamps; if I moan too loud he gives them a pull; if I am not loud enough he squeezes them tighter. Master is in complete control. He is fully clothed as he circles my bare body marked by the end of his whip. The only part of him that I'm allowed to see or touch is his heavy cock, which I pull out tightly through his unzipped pants. It’s the one thing he deprives me of, it’s the only thing I beg for, and it’s the last thing I am allowed to have...that is...if I’ve been a good girl, Master.