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You filled out my submissive training form, didn't you? Checked the box that said you wanted to be dominated, and then gave me nothing else to work with. No details, no direction, just an empty little wish and the assumption I'd fill in every blank for you. That's the mistake you made. You handed me an empty canvas and expected mercy. I don't do mercy for a submissive who can't be bothered to communicate. I do training. And since you gave me nothing constructive to work with, I get to decide exactly what my whipping bitch has earned.
So first, that collar goes on — fastened right where it belongs. Then the gag, stretched wide until you're already drooling around it, hands locked behind your back where they'll stay for the rest of this session. You don't get to touch. You don't get to choose. You only get to kneel there while I decide what happens next. I trail hot wax down the inside of your thighs, watching it light up your skin inch by inch, then flick your balls again and again just to hear those muffled little whimpers — the only language you're allowed now that your mouth is full. You wanted to be dominated? Fine. You're being dominated, on my terms, for as long as I feel like drawing it out. Try to talk your way out of it and you'll hand over that credit card so I can go shopping with your money instead — that's how I prefer to control a submissive who can't follow simple instructions. Keep testing me and I'll keep that cock aching and denied for weeks, hard and desperate and completely mine to withhold.
You don't get to choose how I train you — you only get to obey.
