Words

It is hard to explain how she talks to me when she owns me. To see her words typed here it looks like ordinary conversation. To hear her tone of artic irony mixed with distant affection always reaches deep into my heart and mind squeezing it into something she can mold to her desire.

When I discovered that I needed to worship a woman I read lots of Femdom and female supremacist stories on the web. Reluctantly I had to stop. The dialogue was often something like a bad old historical novel, worse even than a cheap movie.

I think maybe it was spitting that shaped the way things worked out for us.

I’ll never forget the first time she spat on me. I’d only been on my knees before her a few times. I’d just become able to serve her without shivering.

She told me that when the spit hit my face she could almost visibly see my mind move into slave space. My memory is so hard to share. I know my body flushed hotly, I shook so deeply humiliated that I wanted to crawl inside myself. Humiliation, yes it sounds awful to you perhaps. It did feel awful but at the same time I felt there was nothing more important in my life than to be hers.

A much worse day came. She spit on me and it just felt like moist goo on my face. Nothing more. So she stopped.

And it made her think. Mostly she had addressed me with contempt, called me dirty names.

Over time her contempt became subtler. Rarely explicitly stated. As did the worst epithets.

She came to mock me almost lovingly. Or even openly sweetly. Feeling both her power and her love at the same moments made me worship her more, ever more willing to suffer to please her.

She still spits on my face on rare occasions. No longer used to it I cringe within myself again.

And there are plenty of nights when she’s curt or cuttingly nasty. But not every night. On those nights those words alone are enough to make me need to beg and crawl. Being not always heard they lash into my brain.

Do I honor her with a title? It was her own wise decision that in our times of power exchange I address her (rarely, mostly she prefers me silent when not whimpering) with an honorific. What is it you may ask. I’m not going to cheapen it by publishing it here.