Stockholm Syndrome

The sound of the door knob turning makes you twitch in arousal.

You wish it wasn’t this way. Nothing you can do now.

Next comes the swish of my nylons as I cross the room.

“Drooling yet?”

Nylon meets your knee. Its almost enough. You’re that desperate.

I unlock your hands. You rest them in your lap like a good toy.

I spread your knees with my boot. Resting it between your legs. You’d give anything to hump it, but before you beg:


You twitch again as you follow my curves. Nylon calves, thighs. The softness of my bush. More mesh. Silky flesh.

“That’s enough.”

You put your arms at your side to be restrained. You wait. And wait.

You don’t notice the other person in the room until you hear her voice.

“You’re so mean.”

“That’s why you love me.”

The swish of the cane through the air. The sharp inhale of breath. 5 more.

“Remember what we talked about?”

“Obedience is bliss, Ma’am.”

“Do you see what good toys get?”