“Is that what you really want?” she said, her eyes wide, “To be a woman’s slave? To be humiliated, to be tortured?”
I turned away from her and began to cry. There was no way to explain it to her. How can you explain wanting such a thing? …
“Is it? Is that what you want?” Her voice was suddenly harsh and loud. “Look at me and tell me!” She pulled my face around to hers. “Answer me!” She pushed a knee into my groin. “Do you want to be a slave? To wear a bra and panties and stockings, and lick my feet?”
I felt faint; I could not answer. She reached down and raked my naked thigh with her long, red nails. …
“Answer me,” she whispered. “Do you want to be my slave?”
Submerged in total, blissful and certain surrender, I said simply, humbly, “Yes.”
“Yes? Yes, what?” Her nails began sliding up toward my balls.
“Yes, Mistress?” I guessed, my face burning with embarrassment.
“Tell me what you want. Say it now!”
“I want to be your slave, Mistress.”
Her breath scalded my cheek. I felt both powerless and absurdly free. I snuggled
against her, blindly searching for her breasts with my mouth.
”Please let me always be your slave, Mistress!”
— From The Gift by JoAnna Michaels