Name?

Probably a bit carried away. Just a scrap of thinking of submission that is pervasive, subtle (maybe a bit wacked)and not harmful.

On my knees before her for the first time what I saw was a distorted image of myself before her. She’d donned reflective glasses, not being able to try to gauge her mood by seeing her eyes left me feeling more helpless than I’d expected. My only restraint was a tiny pair of thumb cuffs that seemed to hold my arms in place far more severely than full cuffs: I had to keep carefully still.

“What is your name?” was surprisingly the first thing she said. Her tone was dry, uninvolved: she might be a math teacher asking a student for the thousandth time how much was ten times ten.

“Richard “¦ ?” Knowing it couldn’t be that simple I let my answer dissolve into a question.

As she sighed and shook her head she reached out took one of my nipples between her fingers and seemingly absently twisted it. Not enough to really hurt but my reflexes made me try to bring my hands forward, pulling against the thumb cuffs which did hurt a bit.

Five or fifteen seconds later she - I thought but had no way to know - stared at me.

“A chair doesn’t have a name. When you wear my collar you are just another possession. Not even as valuable as a good chair.”

“No, you have no name unless I give it to you. You’ll know when I’m addressing you you.” Putting quite a dose of contempt in those last three letters.

“A slave doesn’t even merit a pronoun. For there is no longer an ‘I,’ ‘me,’ or ‘mine’”

“As a collared slave you will always refer to yourself as my property.”

“If you need to pee you will not say ‘May I go to the restroom’ but ‘May your slave go to the restroom.’”