“Sorry . . . Mistress,” I breathed at last, my wrists crossed up over my head, giving in to her completely . . . whatever she would have me do. “I’m yours.”

Mmm . . . Even typing that phrase does something to me. She has me say that every time I give myself over to her like that.

“Yes,” she answered, like she always does. “You are.” And then she got up from the couch, and left me there for a minute before she came back with a collar for me. It’s leather because I love leather, and it has a little hook for a sort of leash when she wants it (although I go where she pleases anyway), but we really just enjoy the symbolism of it. I’m hers to do with as she pleases.

After she put it on (and it excites me whenever she does), I turned my head and simply enjoyed the feel of it on me. Sometimes I don’t want to take it off, but I know I have to. I enjoy it when I can.

She patted her thigh for a moment, and I scrambled to my hands and knees on the floor, looking up to her with lust in my eyes. I immediately wanted her to touch me, but nothing comes that easily, does it? Not with her, at least, and I like that.

When we were in our room again, and I on all fours in bed, she had me go down on her which I am always pleased to do. She knows how much I love to taste her, and to be able to freely please her like that. I love to use my tongue, and she let me as she simply leaned back and arched and moaned. The pleasure I get just from pleasing her . . . it’s immeasurable.

“Good,” she whispered after she’d cum the first time, rolling onto her front and taking a moment before propping herself up on her knees. “Again,” she uttered at last, giving me permission to eat her out again, but in a new position. And I greedily accepted, burying my face between her legs, wanting to use my hands.

“Please . . . please hands . . .” I whimpered, hardly able to speak at all because I couldn’t bring myself to pull away from her for more than a second.