You Won't Like It

I expect it to happen. Consequences. Punishment. For disoedience. Pain. Humiliation. For pleasure. His, more than my own. But I can't deny that I crave it; my cunt betrays me.

He says it quietly, "All the way, little one." I force myself to ignore my brain; I'm not allowed my own thoughts, my own decisions. Gritting my teeth, pouting. Frowning. But I will behave because there is no alternative.

Obedient, I.

His newest set of behavior modifiers is particularly humiliating for me; but after recent punishment, I've decided that it's best not to argue about these things. If I fight him, he becomes rigidly adamant on following through, and since I am not at all looking forward to spending time in the corner, I should just shut my big-fat mouth except to say, "Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir."