I broke one today. It was delightful.
The sweet, sweet scent of submission wafts through the air, and I can still feel the tremors of pleasure coursing through my veins. Today, I broke one, and oh, it was a glorious sight to behold. The tears, the quivers, the pitiful whimpers – it was a symphony of surrender, and I was the maestro conducting the performance.
I must admit, I was in a particularly wicked mood today. The moon was full, and my sadistic tendencies were on high alert. I had a certain someone in mind, a sub who had been teasing me for weeks, begging for a session, claiming they could handle the intensity of my wrath. I knew better, of course. I knew they were just a fragile little toy, waiting to be shattered into a million pieces.
I began by setting the tone, my voice dripping with malice as I instructed them to prepare themselves for our little encounter. I could sense the trepidation, the fear, the excitement – it was all so deliciously palpable. I told them to strip, to expose themselves to my mercy, and then to assume the position. Ah, the position – on their knees, hands clasped behind their back, eyes cast downward in submission. It's a sight that never fails to stir my loins.
The first stroke was like a gentle caress, a soft whisper of the cane against their skin. I could feel their tension, their anticipation, as they waited for the real pain to begin. And then, it did. The second stroke was firmer, more insistent, and the third – oh, the third was a beauty. The crack of the cane echoed through the room, and I could see the shock, the horror, in their eyes as they realized they were in way over their heads.
But I was just getting started. I laughed, a cold, mirthless sound, as I instructed them to count out loud, to acknowledge each stroke as it landed. The tears began to fall, and I lapped them up like a hungry cat, feeding on their despair. Five, six, seven – the numbers blurred together as I worked my way up to the magical number of ten.
Ten strokes, my friends, is the minimum. Anything less would be an insult to the art of discipline, a slap in the face to the very concept of submission. And I would never, ever settle for anything less. The ninth stroke was the one that broke them, the one that sent them crashing to the floor in a heap of quivering, sobbing flesh.
It was beautiful.
As I stood over them, cane still trembling with power, I felt a sense of satisfaction, of fulfillment. I had taken a fragile, trembling soul and broken them, shattered them into a thousand pieces. And in that moment, I was the queen of the universe.
The aftermath was almost as delightful as the main event. The sniffling, the whimpering, the pitiful attempts to apologize – it was all just so...amusing. I laughed, again, that cold, cruel sound, as I instructed them to clean themselves up, to wipe away the tears and the snot, and to present themselves to me once more.
This time, they would be different. This time, they would know their place. They would know that I was the one in control, the one who held the power, the one who would break them again and again and again.
And as I looked into their eyes, I saw something there, something that gave me a thrill of excitement. I saw fear, yes, but I also saw...anticipation. They knew they would be back, that they would beg for another session, another chance to be broken, to be shattered, to be remade in my image.
Ah, my dear sub, I will be waiting.